


All the Times After

by Goddess_of_the_Night



Series: The Time Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Clueless Sherlock, Coming Out, Daddy John, Domestic Fluff, Everyone's Okay, Fluff, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Happy Ending, John Patiently Guides Him Through, John and Sherlock's Dads are Sassy BAMFs, Leaving 221B Baker Street, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mentions of Very Minor Violence, Mild Praise Kink, Misunderstandings, Papa Sherlock, Parentlock, Patient John, Public Hand Jobs, Retirementlock, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sherlock Discovers Being a Parent is Hard, Sickfic, Smut, Teenage Drama, Wedding, Wedding Fluff, bonding over science, deduction kink, kind of, weddinglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:22:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3641610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess_of_the_Night/pseuds/Goddess_of_the_Night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third installment of the Time Series. We jump around, chronologically, through the lives of Sherlock, John, and John's son Kyle.</p><p>Reading the first two installments of the series will help these make sense, but if you just want some domestic parentlock fluff you should be fine to read these chapters as stand-alones.</p><p>In case you're looking for a certain trope or theme, the tags break down thus:<br/>Chapter 1 - Sherlock Discovers Being a Parent is Hard, John Patiently Guides Him Through, Patient John, Clueless Sherlock, Marriage Proposal</p><p>Chapter 2 - Smut, deduction kink, Mild Praise Kink, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Public Hand Jobs, Sickfic</p><p>Chapter 3 - Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Misunderstandings, John and Sherlock's Dads are Sassy BAMFs</p><p>Chapter 4 - Wedding, Wedding Fluff, So much fluff, weddinglock</p><p>Chapter 5 - Teenage Drama, bonding over science, Mentions of Very Minor Violence, Everyone's Okay</p><p>Chapter 6 - Coming Out, kind of, Grandparents & Grandchildren</p><p>Chapter 7 - Retirementlock, Leaving 221B Baker Street, Happy Ending</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Time of Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> Right now I have four more chapter ideas in mind for this story, but again, if you have any thoughts on something you'd like to see let me know!
> 
> The near-radio silence on The Next Time left me unsure anyone is really interested in this continuing, so this is a test balloon. If no one shows interest I'll end it here; the last thing I want to do is to force this continuation on anyone, I can easily finish this out for myself and just not post it.

**Kyle: 6**  
**Sherlock: 24**  
**John: 29**

The first two years are the toughest. At least I _hope_ they are.

It’s definitely a noticeable difference going from babysitter (read: occasional) to partner (read: full time) involvement.

Now that Kyle gets to see me practically every day, he’s not always a perfect angel. Don’t get me wrong: I’ve observed enough children in my life - especially these past two years - to know that we’re very lucky. He’s polite in public, does what he should be doing, loves doing his school work, and rarely fights. Oh, but when he _does_ fight he really commits to it and does so emotionally, just like his father.

One night last year I was attempting to help him in his endeavor of learning to count to 10, but we both became frustrated quickly. We had been working on him repeating me one small grouping at a time for ten minutes already.

“1, 2, 3,” I said.

“1, 2, 3,” he repeated.

“4, 5, 6.”

“4, 5, 6.”

“7, 8, 9, 10.”

“7, 8, 9, 10.”

“Good, now you lead and I’ll repeat,”

“1, 2, 3,” he started confidently.

“1, 2, 3,” I repeated.

His brow furrowed and then he asked more than stated, “4, 5, 7?”

I shook my head, “4, 5, 6,” I corrected, “let’s start over and try again.”

“1, 2, 3,” he quickly said.

“1, 2, 3.”

“4, 5, 7,” he said confidently.

“ _No_ ,” I stressed, tamping down my frustration with difficulty, “4, 5, 6. Just repeat that.”

“4, 5, 6,” he said automatically, eyes starting to tear up.

“Good. Now start again.”

“1, 2, 3,” he knew this part was right, but he looked worried.

“1, 2, 3,” I affirmed.

“4, 5, 7,” his voice shook.

I closed my eyes. I couldn’t understand how he kept messing it up, how he could keep skipping a number that I repeat to him, “No!” I fumed, opening my eyes, “4, 5, 6; it’s not that hard!” I raved and then yelled, “You’re not even trying!”

And that’s when the tears fell, “I am,” he pleaded softly to the table instead of my angry face.

I pushed myself away from the table roughly and removed myself to John’s room, leaving him to step away from making dinner to see to Kyle.

About 15 minutes later John came in to the room and closed the door softly behind him. He found me with my face buried in my hands as I sat perched on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered brokenly to him.

He sighed and sat down on the bed to my left, placing a hand on my back and rubbing light circles. I leaned the side of my body in to his for comfort, face still covered.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he assured me gently.

I sat up and looked at him incredulously, still distraught, “I yelled at him for no reason! They’re just numbers; I shouldn’t have made a big deal. I just don’t understand how he wasn’t getting it,” I admit.

He smiled warmly at me and reached up to wipe away tear trails I wasn’t completely aware existed, “I bet you were the type of kid who learned everything really quickly, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” I agreed softly.

“Kyle’s probably not going to be like that. He’ll be _smart_ of course, especially with you helping him out, but he’s going to have to work hard at it and we just need to foster that ethic.”

I nodded and looked away to the floor before softly admitting, “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

He laughed, “Yeah, imagine how I felt doing it on my own! You think I’ve never lost it with him before?”

I looked back at him in shock; he’s probably the most patient and understanding person that I have ever met, “I’ve never seen it.”

“Because I’ve sort of figured him out by now. For the moment, anyway,” he amended, “Who knows what’ll happen when his hormones kick in and his friends start having a larger influence,” we both chuckled, “It’s not easy - it’s not _supposed_ to be - but honestly I’m very impressed that it took you this long to become frustrated.”

“But I _yelled_ at him,” I reiterated, stuck on a loop with the real point as though John simply wasn’t understanding the problem.

“Because you want him to do better,” he assured me, “Just don’t ever verbally or physically abuse my child - because no matter how much I love you, I promise I will end you - and we’ll be fine,” he warned good-naturedly.

“I would never!” I told him, scandalized by the thought.

He smiled again before kissing my lips softly, “I know,” he said when he pulled back, “He loves you and he knows you care. Do you want to know why he was crying?”

My face set in a determined fashion as I exhaled loudly, preparing for the well-earned criticism, “Yes.”

“He told me that he knew he let you down. It wasn’t that you yelled; it was that he felt he disappointed you.”

“I disappointed _myself_ , it wasn’t really his fault,” I insisted.

“We know that. He doesn’t,” he said gently.

I stood up from the bed with determination and returned to the kitchen table to sit down calmly. Kyle looked up at me with nervous eyes and I couldn’t help but observe his dried tear trails.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I began softly and his eyes turned curious, “I was angry with myself for not knowing how to help you. You were working so hard to understand it and I…I was failing you.”

“I’m sorry I upset you. I worked even harder while you talked to daddy and I think I’ve got it now,” he said with cautious pride.

My mouth fell open at the realization that he honestly didn’t hate me for raising my voice and storming off, “You did?”

He nodded with a small, hopeful smile.

“That’s wonderful,” the feelings of pride and love returned full force, “Show me,” I gently urged.

And he did so willing, excited to show me the progress that he had made. We made it all the way to ten this time.

As John walked past us to resume making dinner, his hand trailed along my back as he bent to place a tender, lingering kiss to my temple. Once at the stove he turned to look at me over his left shoulder and gave me a wink; I beamed at him in return, my love for him only growing.

 

 

Now at the age of six - thanks to his friends at school - Kyle has learned the famous phrases: “I know you are, but what am I?” and “If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it?”

It astounds me what manages to weather the test of time, but then again annoyingly repetitive responses such as these are right up every child’s alley, even mine for a time. Mycroft, who could never really be classified as a “normal child”, never used them and I admittedly only used them to annoy him with the plebeian phrases.

One night we’re settled down watching a movie together. John and I are snuggled next to each other on the couch while Kyle is lying on his stomach on the floor in front of us. I keep getting drawn out of the film, which is actually very entertaining, every few minutes when Kyle delivers a hard kick to the couch.

After the fourth time, John speaks up calmly, “Please stop kicking the couch, love.”

He doesn’t respond, but three minutes later he kicks again.

“Kyle, stop please,” he tries a bit firmer.

Three minutes later it happens again.

“Stop or I will move you,” John warns him sternly.

“I don’t want to move,” he pouts.

“Then don’t kick the couch again.”

“But I _like_ kicking the couch.”

“But I’ve asked you not to,” he’s growing steadily more frustrated.

“But I _want_ to.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” I interject, giving him the perfect opportunity for:

“I know you are, but what am I?” I can hear his smirk even if he hasn’t turned for me to be able to see it. He knows I think this form of “entertainment” is beneath him.

“An annoying little monkey,” I seethe in response.

“I know you are, but what am I?”

“A sorry excuse for a comedian.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

I breathe in deep before my next attack, “An adolescent human being who finds unwarranted pleasure in repeating the same phrase continuously in an attempt to make the other participating party feel badly about themselves.”

It stuns him in to silence just long enough for a satisfied smirk to begin forming on my lips, but then:

“I know you are, but what am I?”

The beginnings of my smirk falls as my brain quickly wracks for another tactic. Suddenly another popular childhood phrase comes to the forefront of my mind. It’s worth a try, “I’m rubber and you’re glue; whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you.”

He turns his head to finally look at me over his right shoulder. His mouth opens and then closes a few times before he smiles brightly, turning around, and remaining silent for the rest of the movie. John burrows his face in to my shoulder to smother his laugh.

 

 

The following week I venture in to the kitchen to try my hand at making my mother’s lasagna for the first time ever. John has been having a rough time at work and the approaching of exams just means more stress, so I want to try to do something nice for him.

John isn’t due back until around 7:30, so Kyle and I have plenty of time to get it done. We make an awful mess of the entire kitchen, but I plan to wait until tomorrow to clean it up.

Once the meal is in the oven, Kyle and I sit down to start looking at his homework. We’ve yet to yell at each other again, but we definitely still get heated at times. During those situations he’s very good about telling me that I’m confusing him and making things worse, at which point I step back and simply check over it when he’s done. Tonight we’re working on simple math which never causes any ill feelings.

When we’re almost done, John walks in the door and drops his things in their usual places before finding us in the kitchen. He looks absolutely exhausted but happy to be home.

“Something smells fantastic,” he says as he comes over to give each of us a kiss.

“We made Sherlock’s lasagna,” Kyle smiles. He finally learned to pronounce my full name correctly last year and eagerly switched over since it “sounds cooler”.

“My mother’s recipe,” I clarify, “It’ll be ready in about 15 minutes if you want to take a quick shower.”

“Mmmm,” he nods and heads towards the room.

“Try not to fall asleep in there!” I shout after him.

“Yes, dear!” He shouts back and I smile. Kyle just shakes his head and resumes his homework.

By the time John reemerges in the kitchen, Kyle has finished his work, we’ve cleared the table, and dished up the first round of food.

“This was a wonderful surprise to come home to, thank you both,” John says as he sits down.

“It’s a rough time of year for you; you shouldn’t have to always worry about fixing a meal when you get home, too,” I tell him.

“We also picked out a movie for after dinner,” Kyle adds.

“Have you finished your homework?” John asks with a look that dares him to lie.

“Yes, it was easy and there wasn’t that much.”

“Did Sherlock help you cheat this time?” He smiles cheekily at me.

I roll my eyes, “Oh hush up and eat, will you? You’ve yet to take a bite and it’s best when warm.”

He chuckles before taking a bite and letting out a - to my ears indecent - moan, “This is so delicious, why have you been hiding this from me?” He jokingly scolds me.

I blush at the noise as well as the praise, “I’ve never attempted it before so I wasn’t sure how it would turn out. You really like it?” I ask nervously since I don’t cook very often.

“Like it? I _love_ it,” he stresses and then eats another bite as if to prove it.

“If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it?” Kyle chimes in with the charming statement.

John rolls his eyes, “Maybe I will,” he challenges before taking another bite. We long ago stopped trying to be logical when it came to this one; it’s easier to say _‘Maybe I will’_ and move on instead of explaining why you can’t actually marry inanimate objects.

It strikes me that Kyle never says this annoying line to me. Upon further introspection to understand why, I realize that I don’t use the word ‘love’ as much as John does. He gets so much enjoyment out of nearly everything that it’s a good descriptor for him to use, whereas I only ever use the word for my family, including these two.

After we finish and do some very basic clean-up, John yawns, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it through a movie,” he says apologetically.

“That’s all right,” Kyle says, “Sherlock and I made sure to pick a movie that only we will like and will put you to sleep.”

John shakes his head with a small smile, “Why are we even debating this? You need to go to bed so you’re rested for school tomorrow.”

Kyle rolls his eyes, “Daddy, it’s Friday.”

John’s eyes grow wide, “Really?” He looks at me, honestly confused and hopeful.

I walk over to him and wrap him in my arms, “Really,” I confirm.

He sags against my body suddenly, “Oh, thank God.”

I hum in disapproval at the extent of his exhaustion before assisting him to the couch.

He lays down and Kyle curls up with him as I put the movie in. Once I’ve got it started, I move to the end of the couch that John’s feet are on. He lifts them just long enough for me to sit before he places them in my lap. My hands naturally move to gently massage his feet.

He groans appreciatively and slurs, “Tha’s nice,” before falling asleep within minutes.

I can feel Kyle looking at me so I turn to catch his eye.

“That was fast,” he says at a normal volume, causing John to shift fretfully and worry his brow. I ease my pressure on his feet to sooth him and he sighs before relaxing again.

“We need to make sure he sleeps more,” I whisper to Kyle and he nods emphatically before we both turn back to the movie.

I’m not actually interested in the movie - it was more for Kyle - so I permit myself to get lost in my mind. Lately I’ve been thinking about our relationship and my life. I never knew I could feel this way: enjoy life so much. Most of my childhood I was bullied for my brain and lack of social awareness, but I always knew love from my family; sometimes overbearing, but love all the same.

I dated a few people growing up, both girls and boys in fairness of experimentation before concluding scientifically that I was gay, but I never loved any of them. A couple of them loved me, that was fairly obvious, but the sentiment was never returned. Until John.

And children? I have a number of young cousins that like to hang off of me and insist that I play with them. They always seem to have a runny nose and sticky fingers - I haven’t figured out yet how this is statistically possible - which means that I try to avoid the little cesspools. They also like to talk about inane things that I don’t care to even pretend to care about. So in short: I generally don’t enjoy spending time with children. Until Kyle.

They are outliers in the ongoing experiment of my humanity and sentimentality, and I’m not sure what that means, precisely. Are they here to teach me something? Am I supposed to let them go at some point? My stomach drops at the thought and I instinctively turn my head sharply to my left to make sure they’re still there, and only when I see both of their sleeping faces do I allow myself to relax again.

 _‘Mine’_ I think unbidden and then blink in surprise. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the answer: they are mine as much as I am theirs. They are the family that I have chosen.

My father used to say: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

I’ve been with John for almost three years and I’ve only grown to love these two more with each day that passes. Sure, Kyle becomes irritatingly unfathomable to me at times as he grows and discovers who he is,but it’s a fascinating and rewarding journey to observe. John has some annoying habits, as well, such as forcing me to eat and sleep regularly while insisting that I am more than just my brain, but I know he does them out of love.

And love me they both do. John told me early on in our relationship that he is one of the easiest people to read - he’s absolutely right - and it’s a trait he passed on to Kyle. Their eyes full of love and their affectionate smiles are all I need to reassure myself that I haven’t misread the signs. Somehow these two have seen past my freakishness and love me for who I am.

So marriage? Is it time to make this official?

I come to the conclusion that I need to run a few experiments to gather more data to be certain at the same moment the movie ends. I rise from the couch gently, leaving the credits rolling to supply light for me to see by. I move to extract Kyle from John’s loose embrace as unobtrusively as possible, but it wakes John anyway.

I smile apologetically as Kyle snuffles quietly and curls further in to me. Once I’ve tucked him in his bed and placed a kiss to his forehead, I return to the living area to see John sitting up and stretching on the couch.

“How was the movie?” He asks me with a smile.

I move to the player to retrieve the disc and place it back in its case, “It was fine. You and Kyle both fell asleep fairly quick,” I smirk, turning back to him.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “Hopefully I can stop stressing out and get more sleep soon.”

I walk to the couch after turning off the TV. By the street light coming in through the window, I reach out my hands to help him stand. He pulls me in to a languid kiss as soon as he’s on his feet and then leads me by the hand to the bedroom. I still haven’t officially moved in, but roughly half of my belongings are here.

When we’ve changed in to our pajamas, we settle in bed with him as the big spoon. We alternate roles frequently, but when he feels he’s been particularly negligent, he likes to hold me to remind me of his compassion for me. It’s not strictly necessary, but I don’t mention that because I do find it to be nice. It’s safe.

“What can I do to help you?” I ask him quietly, referring to his current emotional state, knowing he’ll understand.

He pulls me a little closer - which really should have been impossible, quite frankly - and smiles against the back of my neck.

“This,” he whispers, “this is good. Everything tonight was wonderful; you’re doing perfectly and don’t need to change a thing.”

I blush at the praise but can’t help insisting, “If what I was already doing was perfect, you wouldn’t be so worn down.”

I feel his head shake in dissent, “The problem is work; teaching is incredibly stressful, especially towards the end of a term. Coming home is perfect: it’s what I look forward to every day.”

I squeeze his hand that’s interlaced with mine, “I just wish…” I trail off, unsure how to voice the need I feel to help him, but he understands anyway. Of course he does.

“I know. However, nothing but a less emotionally involved job is going to fix this, and right now I still love it and this is all worth it.”

“I don’t understand how this feels worth it to you,” I admit.

“I know, no one outside of the profession seems to, but it comes down to the fact that I’m not working with chemicals, or paper, or clinical trials. I’m glad other people do, because those are important, but I’d rather help shape lives and help people grow in to who they truly are.”

“Sounds like raising kids,” I crinkle my nose in distaste and he chuckles warmly against my neck.

“They’re very different; raising your own child is difficult because you’re helping form an entire structure. The difficulty with teaching is that you’re taking someone else’s structure and trying to tweak certain parts of it.”

“I don’t think I could do it,” I shake my head.

“No, not many people can, really; at least not well. But I’ll tell you one thing.”

“What?”

“You bring a necessary balance to the building of my 6-year-old structure, and you do a great job. That, along with your happiness, are the most important things to me.”

“The sappy honesty, John, we’ve talked about this,” I scold him half-heartedly to cover my embarrassment.

He simply chuckles again and kisses my neck, “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John,” I whisper, lulled easily in to sleep as I usually am when in his arms.

On Saturday I decide to experiment on myself to test my own thoughts about marriage further. Every time I observe John or Kyle doing anything - no matter what it is - I refer to them as “my husband” and “my son” in my mind. It’s awkward at first and makes my stomach flutter, but as the day wears on my comfort steadily grows. It becomes so comfortable a thought that I accidentally nearly tell John “our son” is making a mess of the table, but catch myself in the nick of time.

Conclusion: Favorable.

On Sunday I decide to experiment on John. Nothing that he would classify as “not good”, simply gathering information about his previous marriage (which we quite frankly have actively avoided discussing in the past) and testing the waters for any future plans regarding one.

Kyle is napping after wearing himself out this morning by running around everywhere. The apartment is silent as John and I sit on the couch next to each other while reading our books, his right hand playing lightly - most likely subconsciously - with my left. I have resolved to run this experiment without Kyle in ear shot in case John doesn’t want him to know the details, and beginning now would mean I have plenty of time to analyze the data gathered.

I clear my throat and close my book on my finger to mark my place, “John?”

“Mmm?” He hums in acknowledgement but continues to read.

“Why did you marry Kyle’s mother?” I jump right in.

His head swiftly turns to me, his eyes wide, “Where’s this coming from, then?” He asks once he’s composed himself.

I set my book aside completely before turning my entire body to him, and he reflexively mimics me.

“We don’t talk about it, but I don’t understand what makes people settle on marriage, especially to someone that they know isn’t right.”

“Well, there’s plenty of reasons people have to get married and it’s typically different for everyone, or at least every pair,” He says and I nod in understanding before he continues, “For me and Mary, the reason was Kyle. She became pregnant and I wanted to do right by her and him. We hadn’t known each other very long, and I think I knew deep down that it probably wouldn’t last - Lord knows I had plenty of doubts and second guesses - but I felt I owed it to them to try.”

“And why did you divorce?”

“Ah,” he sighs and looks at the floor briefly, “Turns out she wasn’t what I thought she was.”

My brow furrows, “Which was?”

“I thought she was a medical receptionist, and it turns out she was an assassin,” he states calmly.

“What?” I ask harshly, completely caught off guard both by the news and my sense of protectiveness.

He laughs at the look on my face and I briefly entertain the idea that he’s joking, “I know, sounds like a story, right?”

“You’re not joking?” I clarify.

“No,” he shakes his head, “I couldn’t make that up.”

“Where is she now? Is she a threat?”

“In the divorce she agreed to let me have full custody because a child would ‘get in the way’,” he uses air quotes and I reflexively growl low in my throat at the idea, “Then she disappeared. She would never hurt Kyle, and I’m reasonably certain she wouldn’t hurt me, either.”

“But she’s just out there and you have no idea where?” I ask incredulously, the idea causing me some anxiety.

He grabs both of my hands in his, “Calm down and breathe for me,” he says gently and I do as he directs, “I’m sure it’s fine; she hasn’t made any form of contact for nearly five years.”

I move my hands to his face so I can pull him close for a reaffirming kiss. When we part I end all contact as I remember my original purpose for this questioning.

“So, not a great experience for you then, marriage?” I ask.

He looks at me suspiciously, like he’s trying to read my mind, but he’s never been as adept at it as I am, “No, that marriage wasn’t,” he answers carefully.

“Your wording implies that you’ve had more than one.”

“No, my wording implies that, should a second one happen, it would hopefully be better all around.”

“So you’re not,” I start but have to swallow thickly before continuing, “thrown off the idea of marriage?”

His eyes soften in sympathy and I can feel my face heat as he sees right through me, piecing together that this isn’t just about collecting general data.

“Not at all,” he says sincerely, “I just know what I’m looking for now.”

We stare into each other’s eyes for long seconds, and just as I’m about to ask him what it is, exactly, that he’s looking for, Kyle enters the room asking for some milk.

John smiles at me and then gives me a kiss before moving to get the requested beverage.

Conclusion: Confusing but favorable…I think.

On Monday I decide to experiment on Kyle. Well, not so much “experiment” as “politely ask some questions”.

I decide to take an extended lunch break - which my supervisor is more than happy to grant me since I usually don’t take a break at all as I don’t eat while at work - to pick out a ring. Should my final experiment prove successful as I think it will, I want to have it ready.

It takes me a solid hour to settle on a simple platinum band that isn’t too thick or thin. Its dimensions are perfect, just like John.

On my way back to work, ring box in my pocket, I happen to glance in the window of a bohemian-type store and spot some bracelets that trigger an idea. When I walk into the deserted store, a man greets me warmly from behind a counter.

“Is there anything I can help you find?”

“Do you happen to have any leather bracelets? Something that might signify family by chance?”

“Well, we have a number of leather bracelets,” he starts and leads me to the display, “but none that specifically represent family, I don’t think.”

It’s a small selection but there are some truly beautiful pieces.

“Are any of them adjustable? He’s only six right now but I’d like him to be able to continue wearing it if he wants.”

“All of them adjust, and most get decently small.”

I nod and then my eyes land on a lighter colored leather band that consists of three strands braided together. I pick it up and tighten it to see that it can get quite small.

I smile brightly at my luck and turn to the owner, “This one. I’ll take it.”

I pay for it and place it into my pocket next to the ring box. I can barely concentrate for the rest of the day as I think about what I’m going to say to Kyle.

After work I take a cab to John’s apartment instead of the tube and practically run up the stairs to relieve Mrs. Hudson as is our routine. As Kyle and I sit at the table to start his homework, I grow nervous: we only have about an hour until John gets home.

I clear my throat, “Kyle, before we start your homework, I want to ask you something.”

His brow furrows, “Am I in trouble?” he asks worriedly.

“No, nothing like that,” I assure him and then take a deep breath, “You know that I love you and your daddy very much,” I start.

“Of course,” he nods, and my lip quirks up slightly despite my nervousness.

“I’ve been thinking lately that I might like to make it official, our arrangement.”

He looks confused, “Is it not?”

“I…” I start but don’t know exactly how to explain it, so I decide to try again, diving right in, “What I mean is: I would like to ask your daddy to marry me,” I eye him skeptically, but his eyes light up, “Would you be agreeable to that?”

He beams, “You mean we’d be a real family?” He asks excitedly.

I bite back my logical/snarky retort that we were never really a “fake family” but instead say, “That would be the idea.”

“Yes!” He shouts and leans over to hug me, “Does it start now? Have you moved all of your things?”

I laugh, “I haven’t asked your daddy yet; he needs to say yes for any of that to happen,” I clarify.

“Why haven’t you asked him?”

“Because I wanted to make sure you were okay with the idea first. I didn’t want you to feel like you’re stuck with me if you hate me,” I admit, my insecurities seeing the rare light of day.

“I love you, Sherlock, you know that,” he says in a _‘You’re so silly’_ way.

I remove the bracelet from my pocket, “I have a ring for your daddy if he accepts, but I want you to have this no matter what he says,” I tell him as I grab his left wrist and adjust the band to fit his wrist.

“It’s so pretty, thank you!” He says before hugging me again.

“You’re welcome,” I say as he sits proper in his chair again, “Now, I’m going to need your help…”

I tell him the plan and then we start on his homework so John doesn’t become suspicious.

Conclusion: Extremely favorable.

After a dinner of take-away and more than a few _‘Honestly, child, calm down’_ looks to Kyle, we settle in the living area to watch TV while Kyle plays off to the side. Well, to be completely accurate, he _attempts_ to play off to the side but keeps dropping the toys because he’s shaking with anticipation.

“Kyle, are you all right?” John asks worriedly.

“Yes, Daddy,” he can’t even look at us without smiling.

“I may have given him chocolate when I got home,” I lie to John.

“Did you give him a whole bloody _mountain_ of it?”

“Foot rub?” I offer him too suddenly, too innocent.

“What?” He’s caught off guard.

“Would you like a foot rub?” I expand overly sweetly.

He eyes me suspiciously, “What is with you?” he asks and then his eyes grow wide with fear, “Oh God, what did you break?”

I roll my eyes, “Nothing.”

“Did you lose your job?” He continues, convinced something awful has occurred.

“No.”

“Did you _quit_ your job?”

“John,” I sigh in exasperation.

“Oh God, you did. I know you’re getting bored, but did you think this through?”

“I did _not_ quit my job. I just offered because I want to take care of you. Because I love you very much.”

And right on cue, Kyle excitedly chimes in: “If you love him so much, why don’t you marry him?” It lacks his usual petulance, but it’s effective nonetheless.

I look at his beaming face and can’t help an answering small smile, “Maybe I will,” I supply our classic response with a hint of challenge to my voice. I stand from the couch while grabbing the box from my pocket and lower to one knee in front of an extremely shocked John.

“What?” Is all he can think to ask.

“I think this is how it starts, the knee thing; I’m really just going off what I’ve seen in those frankly ridiculous romance movies you like to watch. I’ve thought about this logically and ran a series of experiments to support my theory, but I realized that a decision like this isn’t completely logical, it also has to be felt. It needs both a head and a heart to work. As the head, I know I love you as I never have any other; I know that I cannot imagine a single day without you in it; I know that you are the most passionate and caring individual that I have ever met; I know that _you_ are my heart.”

The look of love and hope in his eyes gives me the courage to finish, “John Hamish Watson, I want to spend every moment - good, bad, or infuriating - of this life with you by my side. Will you marry me?”

For 30 full seconds he just stares at me, not speaking. His tear-filled eyes and openly ecstatic face give me hope at the same time his silence takes it away.

Finally he turns to his son, “What do you think, Kyle? Should we keep him?”

Kyle runs over, “I already said yes,” he smiles while holding out his wrist proudly, “What’s taking you so long?”

John reverently runs his right thumb over the braid, “Three strands,” he whispers.

“Intertwined,” I describe quietly.

He looks back at me heatedly, “Forever,” he adds before swooping down to kiss me.

“John,” I say once I can get him to agree to let my lips go, “You technically still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh!” He looks shocked, “Yes, of course!”

I finally release a breath and smile fully, placing the ring on his finger.

Later that night as we lie facing each other after he made love to me, he speaks.

“That bracelet for Kyle was…very touching.”

“It didn’t feel right only proposing to you; we’re going to be a family and he deserved to have a say in the matter,” I reply frankly and he kisses me.

“So, yesterday when you asked me those questions, that was part of your experiment that you referred to?” He smirks.

“I had to determine if you were open to the idea of a second marriage,” I explain.

He laughs and kisses me again, “You know, most people would take offense to your approach; you’re lucky I love you so much.”

“I know,” I respond honestly, knowing he’s right about not everyone understanding my methods. That’s why I have no doubt that it’s him I should spend the rest of my life with.

“Do you want to know a secret?” He asks.

“Yes.”

“Before Kyle interrupted yesterday, I was going to tell you that it’s you I want. It’s been you from the beginning.”

I can’t seem to stop kissing him since he accepted my proposal: his mouth, his face, his chest, his finger with my ring. To think that this wonderful, astounding man is mine forever is almost too much for me to comprehend.

 

 

For the next two weeks that’s the happiest I’ve ever been; and then something unexpected happens to rival it.

We’re on our way to my parents’ house for Christmas Eve when Kyle calls from the back seat.

“Papa?” He asks.

John and I exchange a confused look before he asks, “Yes, love?”

“No, Daddy,” he honestly scolds, “ _Papa_.”

My mouth drops open of its own volition and I turn around slowly in my seat to face him, “Me?” I ask stupidly. The things this child does to my brain are truly abhorrent sometimes.

He smiles, “Duh. Can I have my juice, please?”

I turn to the bag at my feet and grab his cup before handing it to him.

“Thank you, Papa.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” I say dazedly before settling in my seat again.

It’s that simple: from that moment on - with no explanation of why or why now - I am not Sherlock but someone’s Papa. For someone who never thought they would ever have children or a fiancé, I feel absurdly content.

As John grabs my right hand in his left and squeezes, I can feel my ring on his finger and my heart swells with pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to see more of this, please leave me a comment (preferable) or kudo (still good) letting me know. I honestly don't want to force the continuation of this on anyone, so if no one wants it I'll stop. It's okay.
> 
> If you have an idea of an event (or even just a conversation phrase) you'd like to see happen that fits in the chronological timeline, let me know and I'd love to try to fit it in for you.
> 
> As for the childish phrases that Kyle favors in this chapter, I'm not certain those are big over in England like they are here in America, so I'm sorry if they're not!


	2. The Time Sherlock Turned a Quarter of a Century Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is turning 25 and both of the boys in his life want some one-on-one time with him.
> 
> The first part is pure smut...with plot, but let's not lie to each other.
> 
> If you'd rather not read the smut, feel free to scroll down past the extended spaces (like chapter 1) to Kyle's part that is completely safe for work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a previously unplanned chapter but was inspired by requests for: a closer look at John and Sherlock's love life and Sherlock/Kyle one-on-one time. I think those were it for this one.
> 
> The painting deductions were drawn from here: http://totallyhistory.com/art-history/famous-paintings/ since I know nothing in-depth about art myself. Might help you to have this up to at least see what picture they're looking at at the time.
> 
> I've never really addressed it, but they're not currently living in 221B Baker Street (yes, I have plans for this, but not yet). Also, John never went to war and was never shot, so his shoulder scar does not exist.
> 
> And most importantly: thank you so much to those who left comments and kudos to express interest in me continuing...knowing you guys are out there makes the difference. I plan to see this to the end, but your continued thoughts, criticisms, or plot ideas would be incredibly welcome and motivating, especially since each chapter covers something completely different.

**Kyle: 6**  
**Sherlock: 25**  
**John: 29**

Two weeks later brings us to the 6th of January: a date that no one ever gave much attention to before John.

“So what do you want to do for your birthday this year?” He asked on the Friday night before it.

“Nothing,” I reply blandly, not even looking up from my book that I’m reading on the couch.

“Sherlock,” he chides lightly, “It’s your 25th birthday; we should do something special for it.”

“I don’t see how any one birthday is more significant than another. It’s just another day, John.”

“How about celebrating it special because it’s the first one that you’re my fiancé for?” He smirks.

Cheeky bastard; he knows I’m still beside myself that he said yes and my stomach still flutters every time it’s mentioned.

I roll my eyes, “What did you have in mind?” I admit defeat.

He smiles mischievously and moves to sit close to me, removing the book from my hands and setting it aside. He leans in close to my ear, “I want to take you to The National Gallery,” he moves down to whisper on a particularly sensitive spot on my neck, his lips ghosting against the skin, “So you can practice those deduction skills you enjoy so much.”

I bite my lip as he finally kisses my neck, “You hate my deductions,” I fight half-heartedly, head tilting to the side to grant him further access.

He hums, “No, I hate when you deduce _me_ ; there’s a difference,” he resumes kissing my neck.

I pant, “I don’t understand the difference.”

His mouth moves to the other side of my neck, his left hand on my chest, before he responds, “It’s infuriating when it’s me. But when it’s other people or things?” We both moan as his hand slowly drifts down my stomach, “It’s so fucking sexy.”

I moan much louder than intended at the words as his hand reaches my erection, cupping it through the fabric, “Shhh,” he laughs, “would hate for Kyle to wake up right now,” he warns and I shake my head while biting my lip.

He begins to move his hand over my clothed erection as he continues whispering against my neck, “Watching your brain work through a puzzle and discovering every little detail that most people miss? God, Sherlock, what you do to me,” he moans.

The friction isn’t nearly enough, though the words are more than adequate. I lift his face to mine so I can finally kiss him firmly, “Bedroom,” I growl.

“Kitchen is closer,” he says with a glint in his eyes.

Even after nearly 3 years we keep our bedroom activities exactly there, too nervous about Kyle walking in on us elsewhere. But he went to bed nearly two hours ago and it’s been months since he woke up in the middle of the night, I reason with myself. I nod my ascent and he gladly pulls me towards the kitchen; at least this way we’re not in immediate view should Kyle wake up.

John pushes me down in to one of the chairs and makes me watch as he slowly removes his jumper and unbuttons his shirt beneath, letting it hang open. He undoes his trousers next to relieve the pressure on his cock but does not remove them.

He smiles at me seductively as he finally moves within touching range, and I reverently run my hands over the expanse of his torso as he undoes the buttons on my shirt while kissing me. Once he has them open, he pushes the garment off of my shoulders so it drops to the floor as he drops to his knees and leans forward to kiss a trail down my chest and to the top of my trousers. He undoes them and I instinctively lift my hips so he can drag both trousers and pants off of me.

He eagerly takes my cock in his mouth and I have to bite my hand as my head tips back so as not to make a sound. He hums in appreciation and I look down at him to find him staring up at me.

“Fuck,” I whisper brokenly.

He finally lifts off, creating a tight suction on the way up, “That rather _was_ the idea,” he smirks before stepping out of his bottoms and shrugging out of his shirt before moving to the sink directly across from my seat.

We keep lotion next to the soap there and I moan lowly as he dispenses some on to his fingers and spreads it around.

“I don’t want you to move, Sherlock. Not to come to me, not to touch yourself,” he says sternly and I nod without realizing; anything for that lotion-slick hand to continue its journey.

But it doesn’t come towards me as I thought it would. Instead, John leans forward on the sink while presenting his deliciously round, perky ass towards me and lowers his left hand to his hole and begins to prepare himself.

I make a desperate sound as my hips jerk upwards at the sight, “John, please,” I quietly beg as my hands itch to grab him.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he moans, “Don’t even think of moving,” he reminds and I whimper as I literally sit on my hands.

After a few torturous minutes he straightens up and I sigh expectantly. He pumps more lotion in to his hand and uses it to slick up my cock. It takes all of my self-control not to be too loud or come immediately from the touch.

John straddles my lap facing me, hands on my shoulders as I hold my cock in place with one hand, my other on his hip.

It’s not as comfortable a position as when we’re lying down, but the look and feel of him sinking down on to me is still phenomenal.

He kisses me deeply as his body adjusts; we both prefer me on the bottom, but the switch is just as good and keeps things interesting.

He begins to move and I place both hands on his hips to assist him. After a few minutes I can tell that his thigh muscles are growing tired, so I pull him tightly to me as I stand to lay his back on the kitchen table. But the table, while sturdy, is not solid enough not to scrape loudly against the floor as I pound in to him.

I collapse on to him in a fit of giggles and feel him shaking with mirth beneath me. When we’ve both quieted down he whispers, “Counter.”

I step back so that I slip from his body, groaning at the loss as I help him stand. He moves to a counter and braces his hands on it with his feet spread wide. I’m entranced by the beautiful lines of his body and completely forget that I’m supposed to be claiming it.

“You just going to stare, or are you going to come fuck me?” He goads with a smirk.

I growl as I use my entire body to box him in against the counter and relish in the feeling of him pushing his body back in to mine.

I reenter him slowly and wait for a signal that he’s ready. As soon as I feel him wiggle against me, I place my left hand on his hip and my right comes across his chest where my hand rests in front of his left shoulder. I suck a mark in to the side of his neck as I fuck him in earnest. He comes with his hand around his cock and the tightening of his muscles pulls me over the edge.

We collapse on to the cold floor to catch our breaths. I pull him to my chest and place a tender kiss to his temple.

“You are amazing and I love you,” I pant.

He chuckles and leans to place a kiss to my chest, “I love you, too, but this floor is too damn cold and we need to clean this up.”

I groan at the thought as my head flops back to hit the counter. We finally do as he says we must and are asleep within a half hour.

On Sunday, we leave Kyle with Mrs. Hudson and head to The National Gallery. I don’t know much about art since I never studied it, but John has always had an appreciation for it.

John leads me to the first painting of his choice, “Okay, let’s hear it,” he says to me expectantly.

“This one is overly easy: _The Last Supper_ by da Vinci depicts, of course, Jesus and his 12 Apostles; he announced that one of them would betray him. There was controversy about Illuminati conspiracy thanks to Dan Brown’s _The da Vinci Code_ ,” I finish and can’t help but tag on pompously, “Obvious.”

He smiles at me and I notice a few people around us giving us odd glances, though I’m not sure if it’s the fact that we’re daring to talk or that they can tell we’re a couple. I shrug it off as inconsequential as John leads me to the next one.

“What about this one then?” He asks quieter this time.

“Clearly _Las Meninas_ by Diego Valazquez according to the placard,” I whisper.

John hums as he steps closely in front of me, nearly pressed against me. My arms automatically come up to grasp his biceps to still him.

“What are you doing?” I hiss at him as I glance around to find that no one is paying us any mind; must have been the vocal levels after all.

“We can be quieter this way; you’ll be able to speak directly in to my ear as you deduce the paintings,” he says, but I’m sensing a trap.

“Okay,” I agree warily.

“So go ahead, what about this one?” He urges.

“It means _The Maids of Honor_ and judging by the outfits and décor, it’s set in Baroque Spain, most likely Madrid. It’s very…complex. It has created a discord among critics and scholars as they debate the uncertainties portrayed within it,” I finish quietly, my confusion ringing through.

“Very good, I thought that one might stump you,” he says before leading me on. I snort in derision and we stop at the next one. He immediately places himself directly in front of me again, resting his body fully against me this time.

“ _A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte_ by Georges Seurat, I’d know this painting anywhere; it’s one of my favorites.”

“Really?” He asks innocently as he places his hands behind his back – really there should have been no adequate room to achieve this – his left hand coming to rest at my zipper.

I hiss in shock, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Listening to you admire art. Don’t draw attention; your bloody Belstaff is more than adequate to hide my actions.”

I moan very quietly in distress, aggravated at my body for responding favorably to his words whilst my mind rebels.

“So this one’s your favorite,” he states calmly, “Tell me about it,” his hand begins to slowly move over my growing clothed erection.

“Seurat used a technique known as pointillism to create this work. It,” I hiss involuntarily as his hand grows firmer, “it’s made up almost entirely of contrasting color dots that manifest in to a single hue through the viewers’ eyes,” his pressure increases again but I push through, trying not to draw attention to us, “He spent more than two years returning to this park to get it right,” I finish speaking.

John nods and steps away, leading on. I pull my coat protectively around me to cover my arousal as I follow.

“This one next; one of _my_ favorites,” Johns says as he stops. I settle myself away from him, hoping to discourage his wandering hand, but he shakes his head and positions himself in the same spot.

“ _Starry Night over the Rhone_ by van Gogh,” I start to speak as his hand starts to move again in his infuriatingly teasing fashion, “It depicts Arles from the bank of the Rhone River. It,” I swallow thickly and tilt my head forward so my forehead is touching his hair and practically breathe a plea, “John, please.”

“Keep deducing or I stop,” he warns and then does still his hand, “Unless that’s what you want.”

I let out a frustrated growl before standing straight again and continuing, “It was a precursor to his _Starry Night_ series,” his hand moves again, “except this one has human figures in it. This painting has always reminded me of the Schubert _Ave Maria_ portion of Disney’s Fantasia; the lighted torches reflecting in the water as the monks walk single-file to the cathedral.”

“That’s beautiful imagery,” he whispers.

“Yes,” is all I can say.

Next he leads us to a deserted section. In the back corner furthest from the doorway, he stops.

“Dahli’s _The Persistence of Memory_ ,” I state.

John wastes no time getting in to position. This time, however, he loops his right arm under my coat to wrap around my waist. His left hand deftly undoes my button and fly, but he doesn’t pull my cock out, simply reaches inside to tug it.

“Remember,” he hisses, eyes on the painting, “don’t draw attention.”

His indecent actions are completely covered by both my coat and the angle at which we’re standing. I’m used to having to be plenty quiet with a child at home, but I’ve never had to school my features before. I begin with resolve.

“There are so many interpretations of this piece, and since Dali never explained it, any and all of them could be right,” I swallow a moan; I’m so bloody close now, “I’ve always preferred to think of it as all of these moments that we have in our lives. They shift, they change, they may even mean something completely different down the road, but they’re always there,” almost there, “always reminding us of who we are and what’s important,” I manage to finish just as I finally come, quietly moaning John’s name with my face pressed to the side of his head.

As I attempt to regain my breath he leans up and places a kiss on the bottom of my jaw.

“You’re a menace,” I scold him with no real malice.

“I told you your deductions were sexy,” he smiles cheekily.

“I’m going to take you home now and make you pay for this.”

“Oh, I was counting on it.”

 

 

 

 

Once Kyle heard how much (appropriate, of course) fun we had, he insisted that me and him take a one-on-one trip to London’s Science Museum.

John and I made the decision to let him skip school the Friday following my birthday for the special occasion. He has been suffering some bullying in regards to his behavior and our home life recently – while the world is trying to change and accommodate “non-traditional” families such as ours, not everyone is on board at the moment. I’ve also been suffering from self-imposed boredom in regards to my job of choice, so it’s a mutually beneficial plan.

On Friday morning I let Kyle sleep in a bit later than normal, but around 9 I enter his room to wake him.

“Kyle, it’s time to get up,” I call as I move towards him.

The lump on the bed moves and then moans in a sad way. I stop in my tracks from surprise and then hear, “Noooo!” in a very nasally, pathetic voice.

“Oh no,” I mutter and finish striding towards him, reaching to his forehead and recoiling at the heat. I turn right back around to grab the thermometer and some children’s medicine from the cabinet in the bathroom.

When I return, I sit on the bed next to him and continuously brush the fringe of his dark blonde hair off of his forehead while the thermometer is in his mouth.

I remove it when it beeps and sigh when I see the temperature: 38.0 degrees Celsius; elevated but certainly not dangerous at the moment.

He curls in to my body heat because he thinks he’s cold and makes the most heart-wrenching sounds of discontent from the back of his throat.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you to the couch,” I decide that it will be easiest to keep an eye on him from there.

“But the Science Museum,” he protests weakly past his obviously sore throat, finally blinking his eyes open at me.

I shake my head with an affectionate smile, “Not today. We’ll do it when you’re better,” I tell him.

He clears his throat painfully, “Promise?”

“Yes, I promise,” I say honestly, “Now let’s get you to the couch,” I repeat.

I help him stand, trying to ignore his shivering. I pull his favorite thick blanket from the bed and wrap it around him securely before leading him by the shoulders to the living area.

When he lays down he rocks from side-to-side, eyes closed in pain, and sobs without any tears.

My heart clenches in a way it’s never known before to see him in such distress. I storm in to the kitchen resolutely to fill a glass with cold water before walking back to him, taking one children’s tablet from the bottle, and sitting next to him on the couch.

“Sit up for me,” I urge gently as I move to assist him.

He slowly does so and takes the medicine with difficulty. Once I’ve placed the cup on the table to my left, he burrows in to my side.

“Papa,” he cries sadly once more.

I hold him and place my lips to his temple to hold back my own wave of emotions at the call, feeling utterly helpless.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper and he goes limp in my arms. I lower him to a lying position when his fevered core temperature becomes too much for me. I place him in a position that I hope will be comfortable and move to find my phone.

**Change of plans, Kyle is running a fever.**

_Jesus! How high? Do I need to come home?_

**No, just 38.0 degrees. No need to worry yet, right?**

_No. Have you given him anything?_

**One tab of the children’s medicine. I moved him to the couch for easier access.**

_Sounds like you’re doing fine so far. Let me know if you need me to come home._

**John, I…I haven’t ever taken care of another sick person before.**

_Just keep him comfortable and let him know you’re there. He likely just needs to sweat it out._

**So I just wait? That sounds like torture.**

_Keep an eye on his temperature. If it rises to 40 degrees you should take him in._

**To hospital?**

_No, just our doctor first if they can fit him in. Let me know if it gets to that point and I’ll give you the details._

_I’ll leave my phone on even during class._

**Thank you, that makes me feel a bit better.**

_You’ll be fine, just listen to him._

I scoot one of the arm chairs closer to his head on the couch and grab my book to read, remembering John’s advice of listening to him. But listening to him is what makes it so difficult to simply sit and do nothing as he occasionally moans and groans as he moves but stays asleep. It’s not until around noon that he wakes with more pronounced moans.

I close the small distance between us to take his temperature: 38.4 degrees now, but I remind myself that the medicine is still in his system. I hand him the glass of water and he drinks gratefully.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

He clears his throat painfully and shakes his head while saying, “No.”

“Is there anything I can get you? Do for you?” I fuss.

“Nemo?” He asks as he looks at me with pain-filled eyes.

“You want to watch it?” I clarify.

“Please?”

I nod and move to put the movie in. He’s lying on his left side now so he can easily see the TV. When I sit back down in the chair he reaches his left hand up to grasp at me; I willingly take his hand in mine, reassuring him that I’m here. After he falls asleep a few minutes later, his hand falls from mine and I let it.

The next few hours are much the same: he makes heartbreaking noises of discontent and will reach out for me in a blind, fevered haze.

The next time he wakes, the movie is done and the medicine is out of his system.

He thrashes uncomfortably from side-to-side and moans, “Everything hurts. Why does everything hurt?”

“You have a fever,” I explain.

“I don’t want it,” he pleads.

“That’s not how it works.”

“I don’t want this,” he reiterates.

“I know,” I agree quietly and reach for the thermometer, “Let’s see where your fever stands.”

When it beeps, I look down to see 39.9 and frown in concern.

I pull out my phone.

**39.9 off of medicine.**

_Dr. Murray 020 7946 0022. Are you okay taking him yourself?_

**Yes, I’ll be fine.**

_Keep me as updated as you can._

I call the office and they say that they can fit us in in one hour. I gratefully accept the slot and run around getting everything ready as quickly as possible. I grab some clothes for Kyle – sweatpants, a loose t-shirt, and a zip-up sweater – then struggle to get him in to them.

“Okay, time to go to the doctor,” I tell him once I’ve got everything.

“Can I have more medicine?” He asks tiredly.

“No, they’ll need to see how you’re doing without medicine.”

“But the medicine makes me feel better,” his eyes tear up.

“I know, but I can’t,” I hold strong to my resolve because I know it’s best, but the part of me that hates to tell him no and see him in pain demands I give him the damn pill.

“It hurts less with the medicine,” he tries to explain, like I don’t already know.

“As it should. You’ll get more after the doctor, I promise.”

He sniffs sadly and then coughs. I place the bag on my right shoulder and then pick him up and place him on my left hip before going down to the street to grab a cab.

He’s a little too big for it to be comfortable to carry him like this anymore, but it’ll make the trip much easier. The entire cab ride he lays curled in my lap as I run my right hand through his overly warm hair.

They get us in with an assistant fairly quickly for the pre-exam. Kyle is sat on the table alone while I occupy a chair close by. As she asks him questions he looks to me for guidance, leading me to answer most questions for him.

During the pre-exam he gets warm and removes his sweater, but within 10 minutes of the assistant leaving the room he gets cold again and puts it back on. A few minutes after that his shivering increases and I can’t stand it; I rise from the chair and pull him in to my arms, rubbing my hands up and down his back to generate a sense of warmth for him even though his body is burning up.

I look at the clock when my legs begin to ache to see that we’ve been waiting alone in this room for a half hour. I kiss Kyle’s forehead lightly and step away to sit in the chair again.

**Half an hour? How long am I supposed to wait before I leave this room and lodge a complaint?**

_Sherlock Holmes, you listen to me: do not leave that room. Do not yell at anyone. Just keep waiting and be patient._

**Patient? They’re ignoring our son!**

_[slightly delayed] There’s no way you’ll let them ignore our son._

_But they get busy, give them time._

“Papa?” Kyle asks tiredly, and when I look up I notice that he’s swaying slightly, “Can I go back to sleep now?”

I stand up and gather him in my arms before bringing him back to my chair and allowing him to curl up in my lap, my arms wrapped around him protectively.

“I’ve got you, go to sleep, sweetheart,” I whisper and feel him settle quickly.

Another half an hour later, Dr. Murray finally enters the room.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he says and then looks at Kyle still asleep in my arms, “I see he fell asleep during the wait.”

“Well he’s been without medicine for hours now and the fever is taking its toll,” I fume at him quietly, a look that could kill in my eyes.

“I understand your frustration,” he tries to appease me gently, “If you could wake him up I would be happy to see what I can do to get him feeling better.”

After a very efficient exam we leave the office with a diagnosis of flu and a prescription at a local pharmacy.

We pick up the medication and find John at home by the time we return.

“Daddy,” Kyle smiles weakly and reaches out to him. John takes him from my arms and back to the couch before settling him.

“How are you feeling, love?”

“I hurt all over,” he moans, burrowing in to his blankets.

“The medicine will help with that,” John says while looking at me as I walk towards him with the first dose, “I’m sorry I couldn’t leave work sooner,” he tells Kyle.

Kyle swallows the dose and settles down sleepily again, “That’s okay, Papa took care of me. Papa _always_ takes care of me.”

“Yes he does, doesn’t he?” John asks as he smiles affectionately at me.

“Go to sleep now, sweetheart, the adventure’s over,” I tell Kyle gently instead of acknowledging either of their words.

“Papa?” He blindly reaches his hand out to me with his eyes closed, like so many times today.

I grab his hand, “I’ll be right here,” I assure him.

He sighs contently before falling asleep once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, Kyle's one-on-one time really was going to be a visit to the Science Museum, and then I woke up yesterday with a wicked fever and unable to go to work, and then this happened. I'm not going to tell you how old I am, but I'm old enough that the fact that my Grandma had to drag me to the clinic against my will because my fever was so high is super embarrassing.
> 
> Second of all, I'm sorry that Kyle is Sherlock's kryptonite. Just kidding, I'm not really.
> 
> Thirdly, I can't promise how quickly each new chapter will appear, but it's my honest hope not to make you wait too long for each. However, I am hand-writing each and then fleshing out/editing as I type them up, so that unfortunately takes a little more time.
> 
> Lastly, I'd love to hear what you thought of these snippets, good or bad. And don't forget to leave me any ideas that might still fit in to the chronological timeline if you have them!


	3. The Times it was Almost The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looks in to two times their relationship almost ended before it settled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to do this, per say. But I had to, you see.
> 
> This is shorter than all the rest so far, and the first part resolves quicker than planned because I couldn't bring myself to carry it on.
> 
> I was prompted to show Mary coming back and confronting John, but no one asked for the misunderstanding that comes first. My brain did that all on its own when I was doing the rough outline before starting The Next Time. I'm just glad I finally got there and through it, honestly.

**Kyle: 7**  
**Sherlock: 25**  
**John: 30**

It started with four simple words. Seventeen letters arranged in to four words shouldn’t have been able to cause this much destruction, but they did.

John and I are making dinner one mid-August evening while Kyle watches TV when I speak them.

“I’ve decided to leave,” I say, unwittingly setting the ball in motion.

John completely ceases all movement at the sink where he had been peeling potatoes.

“What?” He asks dangerously quiet, not turning to face me at the counter where I’m chopping carrots. This should have set my “Not Good” radar off, but for some reason it didn’t.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” I continue calmly, never faltering in my chopping, “and I really think it’s time.”

He’s silent for a few seconds and I glance over at him to see his jaw clenched. The potato he was peeling falls to the bottom of the sink.

“So you just…what? Came to this decision all by yourself?” He grits out and I don’t understand why he’s so angry.

I stop chopping and face him, “You _know_ how unhappy I’ve been,” I say with confusion and an edge of hurt.

He finally looks at me with such agony and accusation. I don’t get it: I don’t understand why he’s so upset with me.

“No, Sherlock, I thought you were happy,” his eyes tear up even as his expression hardens yet further.

“How could you think that?” I ask incredulously.

And he loses it. He moves closer to me so he can hiss at me without Kyle overhearing, “Oh, I don’t know,” he starts venomously, “Maybe because you said you were; maybe because I thought I saw it in your eyes; maybe because you fucking asked me _and my son_ to let you share our lives with us!” he seethes with such contempt that it literally takes the air from my lungs. He can’t possibly think…

He continues, the fight leaving him as quickly as it came and only leaving a desperate sadness in its wake, “I don’t honestly know _how_ I missed that you were no longer happy with us…with me,” a tear slips out, “But if you are then I wish you’d just go. I don’t want to tear it to shreds,” he pleads.

I furiously struggle for any words to leave my mouth, but I’m so completely caught off guard by how wrong he’s read the entire situation that all that comes out is, “John, I…”

He shakes his head sadly and removes my engagement band. He closes the distance and places it in to my palm with a shaking hand and whispers brokenly, “I won’t hold you here against your will. I refuse.”

My brain seems to slowly be coming back online, “Against my will? John, I don’t want to _leave_ ,” I plead with voice and eyes.

He looks pained as he replies, “You just said…” and motions vaguely at the air with his right hand.

And it finally clicks, “My _job_ ,” I clarify quickly, “Not _you_.”

Now it’s his turn for his brain to catch up, “But, I thought…”

I step forward and kiss him hard. When I pull back I insist, “God, not ever.”

He searches my eyes hopefully and finally understands. He wraps me in his arms and sobs, “You absolute cock!” he scolds me through his tears, “How could you let me believe that?”

He pushes me away to glare at me again, but the relief is rolling off of him in waves. I hold his gaze as I carefully reach for his left hand. He doesn’t fight me as I replace the ring.

“I’m so sorry,” I start, “I have absolutely no idea how you thought it, but I swear I’m not going anywhere.”

He grabs my face and kisses me before a thought enters my mind and I pull back, “Hang on, you were just going to let me walk out like that? You weren’t even going to _fight_ for me?” I ask indignantly.

An entire painful story passes through his eyes: fear of being abandoned again, protectiveness for Kyle, always waiting for the bottom to drop, more. He tells me none of them with words but knows I see them.

Instead he smiles slightly and says, “I know you, and I know that once you’ve made up your mind there’s no use in begging.”

“You know that I have completely resolved to marry you almost exactly one year from now, and no amount of begging could make me change my mind,” It’s practically a threat, but his smile only grows.

“Good,” He kisses me again, then, “Wait, you’re quitting your job?”

I roll my eyes fondly, “Finally back to the original point, are we?”

His eyes narrow, but it’s all for show, “And what will you do: go work at a Pharmacy?”

“I’ve been talking to Detective Inspector Gregson as of late…”

He cuts me off with a groan, “I have told you time and again to leave poor New Scotland Yard alone.”

I make an offended face before responding, “I will have you know that they always come to me, never the other way around,” I say and he snorts but remains quiet, “He says my deduction skills are quite impressive.”

“Of course they are, we both know that, but impressive enough to make a career of it?” He asks skeptically.

“I think so,” I say, sure of myself.

“So you’re going to go back to school to become a Detective?”

“I thought I’d just…be one. No schooling required.”

He lets out a startled laugh, “You thought you’d just…” he starts but laughs again, “Okay, let’s sit down and talk about this,” he says and moves to the table, dinner completely put aside for now. I follow with a confused feeling.

He grabs my hands and says gently, “You can’t just become a Detective without training solely because you say you are one; that’s not how the world works.”

“Honestly, John, I don’t know what taking classes for it would teach me. You’ve been helping me cultivate my skills and New Scotland Yard has been consulting me for over a year now.”

“Yes, but…”

I remove my hands from his, “That’s not how it works,” I quote back to him, “I know. But why isn’t it? What’s to stop me from becoming a Consulting Detective?”

“The fact that that isn’t a thing, for one,” he deadpans.

“Ah, but it is if I _make_ it one,” I smirk triumphantly.

“And do what? Offer up your services like Miss Cleo?”

“Who?”

“She was a…forget it. But seriously, Sherlock, have you thought this through? We have a wedding to pay for and a family to support.”

I roll my eyes and sigh, “Of course I have. I have a trust fund that we can tap in to if this doesn’t work.”

“We really shouldn’t fall back on that for this,” he shakes his head seriously.

“Well then it’s a good thing this won’t fail.”

“You can’t know that for sure,” he reasons.

I pin him with A Look, “John,” I say, the _‘don’t be ridiculous’_ coming through loud and clear, “Besides,” I smile, “You haven’t even heard the most brilliant part yet.”

“Oh God, what could you find more brilliant than having a job where you get to show off that big brain of yours?”

“Doing it with you by my side,” I state excitedly.

He’s speechless for a moment, then, “Sherlock, I _have_ a job, and I quite like it.”

“No you don’t,” I dismiss with a wave of my hand.

“Yes I do,” He insists with irritation.

“Like it? Okay, fine, but you’re just as bored with it as I am with mine. You used to _love_ teaching.”

“I did…I mean I do,” he tries to convince us both.

“Statistically, between 40 and 50 percent of teachers quit the profession within the first five years. It’s completely normal,” I try to assure him.

He shakes his head, “It’s difficult, but I haven’t thought of leaving it yet.”

“Because you love it, or because of the monetary stability it’s brought you and Kyle?” I ask seriously.

He looks at the table and whispers, “I’m not sure anymore.”

“Let me try this,” I entreat him as he looks up again and I lean forward in my chair, “trust me to. And if I can make decent money as a Consulting Detective, I want you to consider quitting your job and being my partner.”

“Why on Earth does that sound like a good plan to you?”

“Because I think better with you around; everything is clearer. While you may not think yourself luminous, you are my conductor of light.”

He shakes his head with a small smile, “You’re strangely romantic at odd times, you know that?”

I scoff, “I told you I know how to fight for our love, I never said I was any good at expressing it.”

“When is dinner going to be ready?” Kyle asks as he walks in to the kitchen, “I’m starving.”

“Oh!” John says, realizing we stopped working on it, “You know what? How does Chinese sound?” He asks Kyle.

“Yes!” He makes a fist in the air and brings it down triumphantly before returning to the TV.

As John moves past to find a menu and place the order, I grab his wrist and he looks down at me questioningly.

“The job?” I ask nervously, knowing I’ll keep my current one if the change makes him uneasy.

“I think you deserve to try it. After all, there’s always Pharmacies,” he smirks knowingly.

“And do you promise to at least consider joining me if it’s successful?”

“Should that be the case – and for you, I truly hope it is – I will consider it.”

“Thank you,” I say honestly, my shoulders feeling lighter already.

 

 

 

 

 **Kyle: 8**  
**Sherlock: 26**  
**John: 30**

July 11th the following summer: it’s Kyle’s 8th Birthday party. Most of his classmates and all of his friends showed up to the park for presents, games, and cake.

I’m talking to two couples – parents of Kyle’s close friends – about how glad I am that the stress of it is over.

“Yes, but that just leaves more time to stress about the final wedding details,” Jackie smirks.

I groan, “I cannot believe it’s only a little over a month away!”

“Still a lot to do yet?” Connor, Jackie’s husband, asks sympathetically.

“A shocking amount,” I agree.

My phone alerts me to a text and I remove it from my trousers to read it. When I do, my blood runs cold.

_The Woman is headed your direction. –MH_

After John had told me about Mary’s occupation as a professional killer, I convinced Mycroft to keep tabs on her in case she ever tried to come and harm us. He’s sent me a few texts since then letting me know she was near, but this one’s different: this one implies that she’s going to show her face.

“Is everything all right?” Brian asks concernedly.

I look up and fake a smile, “Yes, I just need to inform John of this,” I say as I wave the phone silently in the air, “excuse me,” I say politely and then head through the crowd that’s growing thinner by the moment to find John.

He sees me approaching and his look turns from joyous to worried. He quickly excuses himself from the Robertson family and walks towards me with Kyle.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” He asks quietly when they reach me.

“I…” but I don’t get any further as a falsely sweet voice calls:

“Ah, John! There you are!”

I turn and see a woman I’ve never seen before approaching. When she reaches us, I recognize her eyes and cheekbones from Kyle’s face and know this is Mary. My body moves to place itself between her and them in an instinctively protective motion.

“Mary? What the hell are you doing here?” John sounds extremely shocked.

“I wouldn’t miss our son’s birthday,” she says as though it’s the most unthinkable thing in the world – as though she hasn’t missed at least the last six – before she leans down to Kyle who instinctively grabs on to John’s waist and hides his face, “Hello, Kyle.”

John places a protective hand on his head and I make a low rumbling noise in my throat as I take a step towards her threateningly.

She stands up straight with a look of shock on her face as though she’s just noticed I was there, “And who might you be?”

“John’s fiancé,” I reply coolly, daring her to challenge me.

Her eyebrows shoot up and she looks to John as she lets go a laugh, “No wonder we didn’t work out; you’re gay.”

My jaw tightens in anger as my fists clench at my sides to hear her mocking tone, but before I can say anything John is responding.

“First, we didn’t work out because you _kill people_ ,” he hisses angrily at a dangerously low volume, “and second: I’m not gay, I’m bisexual, as you well knew!”

“Same thing,” she dismisses.

“They’re really not. Would you like me to walk you through the difference?” I ask scathingly.

John stares between me and Mary before placing a hand on my arm, “Sherlock, maybe it would be best if you waited over there and we did this alone.”

My stomach drops and I give him a confused, hurt look. He smiles at me apologetically and adds, “Please.”

I simply nod curtly and walk towards one of the tables to sit down. I watch them, but I’m too far away to hear anything they’re saying.

I try not to watch them, I really do, but it’s extremely difficult. Instead I watch as people continue to leave, casting curious looks at John and The Woman.

 _‘The original family’_ my brain supplies and it’s as though a sword goes through my gut. I become very self-conscious about my place with these two for the first time. What if seeing her again rekindles what was there before? _‘There was nothing there.’_ What if he decides it’d be easier to try again with her than to continue on with me? _‘She’s a murderer.’_

But for once my insecurities are overriding the logical thoughts of deductions and the pain in my heart is so achingly real.

“Don’t even think about it,” I open my eyes I hadn’t known I’d closed to see my dad sitting next to me at the table.

He’s always been very observant; not as much as me, but very close.

“What am I thinking?” I challenge him sulkily.

“That John would choose her over you,” he says without missing a beat or sweetening it any.

I sigh and look away from him and back to the group of three. Mary and John are both kneeling on the ground to get to Kyle’s level and the three of them seem to be having a good conversation, if their smiles are anything to go by.

A flare of jealousy nearly overwhelms me. How dare she just come waltzing back in and try to take my family away from me?

When I register the emotion, I shake my head and turn back to my dad, “What am I doing?” I ask him sadly.

“Preparing to fight for them,” he says.

I shake my head in dissent, “No, if he said she was better for them, I don’t think I could drag it out for him like that. We both want what’s best for Kyle, and if he thinks that’s her, how can I argue?”

“There is no way you believe that _woman_ is better for them than you,” a new voice spits with contempt, and I turn to see John’s dad Bill joining us at the table.

“Logically I know I must be better, but John lets his heart and instinct rule most of his decisions,” I tell Bill.

He shakes his head, “I saw them plenty when they were supposedly in love, and I’ll tell you, it was nothing compared to the way he looks at you…the way you look at each other.”

I give him a half smile before looking at the trio again. Kyle is excitedly telling something to Mary and both parents seem amused. My stomach drops yet further and I have to turn away.

“It’d be so much easier for John and Kyle to be with Mary and none of the stigma that comes with being, and having, two fathers.”

“Yes, it would,” Dad agrees frankly, “But that there?” He points to them, “That’s being polite – playing a game – it’s not love.”

“That’s saying she’d even _want_ to stay,” Bill scoffs, “Even if she _has_ switched careers, a domestic life was never her calling.”

“Maybe that’s changed and now it _is_ ,” my insecurities continue to persist.

“Since when have you been so bloody pessimistic, Sherlock?” Bill asks.

Before I can open my mouth to respond, Dad chimes in, “He thinks he’s protecting himself right now.”

Bill huffs out a laugh, “Oh, lad, it is way past the time to safe-guard your heart.”

“Idiot,” Dad adds in affectionately.

“Neither of you are worried by this?” I ask angrily, gesturing towards the trio.

“Papa!” Kyle yells as he runs towards us.

“Not at all,” Bill says as I scoop Kyle up and place him on my lap.

“Daddy said I could come and sit with you now.”

“Did you have a nice chat with her?” I force my voice to stay neutral.

He scrunches his face in distaste, “I guess so. Can I tell you something and you won’t be mad?”

My gut wrenches imagining what it could be, “Of course,” I assure him.

“I know you tell me to be nice to everyone and not judge them for being different, but I don’t like her. I think she’s mean,” he whispers conspiratorially.

“She was mean to you?” I ask, ready to finally go give her a piece of my mind.

“No, it’s just a feeling I got when she talked to Daddy; I don’t think she’s very nice.”

I hug him and place a kiss on his head, “I promise she won’t hurt you.”

“Oh, I know,” he says without a single care.

John appears to be wrapping up the conversation with Mary as his expression slowly closes off and becomes cold. They part ways and he walks over to the table where the remaining men are seated.

“I forgot how much I despise that woman,” he fumes.

“And you feared he would run away with her,” Bill laughs to me before standing up, “Come on, Kyle, let’s start your goodbye to Grandma since that always takes forever.”

John is looking at me in shock and I glare impressively at the retreating backs of Bill and my father as they escort Kyle to our mothers.

“You what?” John asks incredulously as he pulls a chair close to mine.

“I just thought it’d be easier with her,” I can’t meet his eyes as I admit it.

“Then you were clearly never married to her.”

I glare at him now, “Clearly.”

“Even before I knew she was killing people, I never fully trusted her. Trust me when I say that even with the pressures from the public about you and me, this is infinitely easier than it ever was with her.”

“Yes, but…” I try to divert again.

“No but,” he interrupts, “It comes down to this,” he grabs my face in his hands to meet my eyes and all of my doubts and fears melt away.

It ends with three little words: “I choose you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel weird about the first fight...like it comes across weirder than I intended it to: John jumps to conclusions and escalates it very quickly while Sherlock just flounders. But...I don't want to change it. Maybe at some point I'll flesh it out to try and include more of John's thoughts, but that's the danger of a first person limited narrative. I've never disliked my choice until now.
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts on these snippets. I swear they'll be happy and grossly sappy again next chapter (and hopefully from here on out...at least with each other).
> 
> I anticipate starting the next chapter soon so I can feel less dirty about this haha.


	4. The Time it Became Official

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get married. And I hope it's everything you ever wanted it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so excited to write this part, you have no idea. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do, even if the fluff does rot your teeth out.
> 
> The songs, in case you would like to hear them as they're mentioned:  
> 1\. Elsa's Procession to the Cathedral by Richard Wagner: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lvYWJ4GAsjQ --The fact that this man, whose chromatic exclamations sound about as romantic as the spoken German language itself, wrote this kills me. It is one of the most beautiful works I've ever encountered and still one of my favorites after many years.  
> 2\. I Choose You by Sara Bareilles: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ooiLP_zqnFs --This isn't the video of it, but if you have never seen the one of Sara volunteering her time to sing this song live as gay/lesbian couples proposed to each other, I highly suggest you do. I cried so hard.  
> 3\. Songbird by Fleetwood Mac: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTi19MPOvDw  
> 4\. What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3yCcXgbKrE
> 
> If you've never heard 3 or 4 before? Well...I can't do anything for you, haha.

**Kyle: 8**  
**Sherlock: 26**  
**John: 31**  
**Time: Mid-August**

I pace back and forth in my secluded room, wringing my hands nervously as I go over every detail in my head yet again.

“Good lord, will you _please_ calm down?” Mycroft mumbles as he rubs his fingers over his temples, “You’re starting to stress _me_ out.”

“What if I forgot something? What if it’s not perfect?” I fret.

If there’s one thing I know, it’s that John deserves this to be perfect.

“Everything is just as you wanted it,” he says.

“Not everything has _happened_ yet,” I seethe at my brother sitting calmly in his chair, “Meaning it can still go wrong.”

Mycroft sighs to the room, “Would anyone else like to jump in and give it a try?”

“Sherlock, think about it logically,” Mike Stamford starts reasonably, “even if something does go wrong – which it won’t – what could you do about it now?”

I stop and look at him nervously, “But John deserves,” I start, but Dad interrupts me as he’s prone to do.

“He deserves you and your attention,” he says gently, “Not your focus on the details. I doubt he’ll even notice half of them even though he helped pick them.”

I look at the three men in the room with me: father, brother, friend, and don’t bother to disguise my worry.

“Are you getting cold feet?” Mycroft asks incredulously.

I scoff, “No, I have no doubts about John or Kyle or this wedding,” I say with conviction.

“But?” Mycroft presses.

“But,” I say reluctantly, “this is John’s second marriage; I can only assume he’s getting cold feet and will come to his senses and realize how unworthy I truly am.”

“Sherlock,” Dad says kindly, “he’s not going to not marry you if a little detail is out of place.”

“Remember how everyone in the department speculated about the two of you long before you got together?” Mike asks.

“Please, most of the department was preoccupied trying to get him themselves,” I dismiss.

“No,” he smiles, “most of the department merely fantasized,” he clarifies and I glare as a wave of jealousy swells within me, “But the rumors were only ever of the two of you. Why is that, Sherlock? Why would everyone pick you – who never showed an interest in another human platonically much less romantically – to support?”

He’s still smiling but my brow creases in confusion, having never considered why before.

“I have no idea,” I admit as I shake my head.

“Because he only ever had eyes for you,” he states simply, “It was clear from day one that you had captivated him.”

I search his face to judge his honesty, “Really?”

“You know I’m an abysmal liar,” he laughs and I join him.

“You really are,” I agree, letting my nerves finally calm down thinking of it in those terms.

A light knock on the door brings a bit of my anxiety back, but it’s only Kyle. He smiles brightly at me and I give him a pleased half-smile in return.

“How’s your dad holding up?” Dad asks him.

He laughs, “He’s just about as nervous as him,” he replies, pointing to me.

“I’m not nervous,” I huff indignantly.

He pierces me with my own _‘Don’t be an idiot’_ look before saying, “Papa please.”

I sniff in response, “Have you been sent here to spy on me then?”

He shakes his head, “Daddy wanted me to bring you these,” he holds out a small box and a folded piece of paper. I take them from him and open the note.

_Sherlock,_

_I know we didn’t really go along with the traditional ‘Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue’ thing, but these just happen to fulfill two of those. Please wear them today._

_I cannot wait to be married to you, but most of all I can’t wait for the amazing food we chose. Do you remember the chicken?_

_Sorry, this is really just me distracting myself from my nerves; if I could fast-forward to the part where we’re married, I would. Actually no, I wouldn’t, because then I would miss walking you down the aisle to that beautiful Wagner piece – which I honestly thought was a contradiction until you played it for me. I will see you soon. I love you so much._

_John_

_P.S. Please stop pacing and worrying about everything…I know you are. I don’t care if the flowers are wrong or your shirt is creased funny or if the bloody church burns down (though that last one might be a bad omen for the marriage, so best to avoid it), as long as I am married to you by the end of it all._

I fold the note as I continue to hold back my tears, a wave of complete admiration for this amazing man rolling through me.

I open the box and a few tears finally escape as I lay eyes on the gift: a pair of silver cufflinks with “SWH” inscribed artistically with a blue finish.

“Honestly, there’s no hope these are your last tears is there?” Mycroft asks as he hands me a handkerchief.

“Piss off,” I scold as Dad takes the box from my hands and assists me in replacing my old cufflinks.

I habitually pull at my cuffs even though they’re sitting perfectly straight and my eyes meet Kyle’s. John yelled at me long ago not to deduce him or Kyle but to have conversations with them instead, but it’s impossible not to see his joy being guarded by a slight fear.

“Gentlemen, may I have a moment alone with Kyle, please?” I ask without looking from him, and he swallows nervously as the room clears and the door clicks shut.

I sit in a chair and he follows suit. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say, but I begin anyway and trust that the words will come.

“When you were four, you told your Grandma that you wanted to keep me.”

He blushes, “I remember the story.”

“And you asked your dad if we were going to be a family.”

“Yes.”

“And two years ago, on the night I asked your dad to marry me, you said you still wanted those things.”

“Yes,” he swallows nervously again and I chorale my courage.

“I need you to tell me honestly now: are you still okay with this?”

He blinks in surprise, “Of course I am!”

“But?” I persist, just as my brother did to me not too long ago.

He looks at the floor, “I know you love us and have been with us, but he’s all I’ve had,” he looks up at me sadly, “I don’t remember mum except for my birthday last month, but _he_ does and I know it’s been hard for him. He,” he fumbles here and begins to fidget with the braided leather bracelet that rarely leaves his wrist, “he’s always done what’s best for me, sometimes overlooking himself, and I can’t…I couldn’t stand it if you felt pressured in to this because of me,” his eyes turn beseeching and utterly heartbreaking as he finishes, “I love you, Papa, but if you have any doubts about staying, I’d rather you just left now.”

His final words so closely resemble John’s from the night he misconstrued that I was leaving them and I’m reminded of everything that they’ve been through before me. Suddenly he’s the four-year-old who couldn’t let go of me in a restaurant because he was afraid I’d disappear again.

The enormity of the situation weighs on me as I quickly calculate how to best respond.

“You are so brave and smart,” I begin sincerely with pride, “both of which you come by honestly. There is one major thing your dad and I have in common, and that’s that we both want what’s best for you. But I think you and I can agree, can’t we, that your dad is very special and needs some looking after, too. I promise that you and I together can make him the happiest man alive,” he smiles hopefully at that, “Before I met the two of you, I didn’t care for other people. They always judged me before they got to know me and called me a freak,” I tell him honestly.

“Is that why you tell me never to judge someone just because they seem weird?” He asks as realization dawns.

“Not that it’s anything you ever really needed to learn since you always did it naturally, but yes,” he nods, “So trust me when I say: if I didn’t 100 percent want to be here and take this step with the two of you, I absolutely would not.”

It’s not something that I feel should make him happy to hear, but it does. He launches himself at me and wraps his arms around my neck as mine hold him securely about the waist.

“Good? Have we both laid our fears to rest?” I ask him when the embrace ends.

“Yes,” he smiles and nods, “Thank you, Papa.”

I smile, “I love you,” I state, something I admit far too rarely, “Can you take a gift back to your dad for me?” I ask as I stand to retrieve it.

“Absolutely.”

I hand him a box with a blue pocket square with white polka dots that matches my own. It’s an unscripted change from the white ones we originally chose, but great minds and all that.

I give Kyle a hug and place a kiss to the top of his head, “I’ll see you again soon,” I say and then he’s gone.

24 minutes later I walk with Dad, Mycroft, and Mike to the doors that lead in to the sanctuary. Our mothers are waiting and both come to me to fuss over my hair and suit. In general, I’m extremely pleased that John’s parents returned to their ecstatic states of mind once they got over the deception we pulled on them, but right this moment it’s a trifle annoying.

I hear a door open and more footsteps come our way. When I look, I’m immediately entranced. I have no idea why I can’t look away from him; it’s not like I haven’t ever seen him cleaned up in a tuxedo before but…this time it’s for me.

When Lestrade, Bill, Kyle, and John join the group, it takes every last ounce of willpower I have not to kiss him. Instead I smile as I fix his already-perfect pocket square I gave him. He lifts his hands to run his thumbs over my cufflinks. Neither of us says a word, but we can’t look away from each other.

Distantly I hear the church bells chime 3 o’clock, and within a minute Wagner’s _Elsa’s Procession to the Cathedral_ begins to play.

Mike offers his arm to Dad and begins the walk to the front of the church, Greg following with Bill’s arm in his. Both fathers are placed in the front pews before Mike and Greg take their spots on the right and left, respectively.

Next Mycroft escorts Mummy, followed by Kyle and Barbara, and they settle the same as the men before.

I smile brightly as I offer my left arm to John.

“Here we go. Are you ready for this?” He asks me.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” I reply at the same time everyone stands and faces the aisle.

When we reach the officiant, the brass quintet finishes out the last few bars of the slightly truncated piece and we begin.

I honestly don’t pay attention to the opening remarks since they’re simply required fanfare, says John. We opted for a reasonably timely, efficient ceremony, so we’re soon at the vows portion.

“Sherlock and John have elected to write their own vows. John?” The officiant gestures to him and he nods as he pulls out a notecard.

“I had to write it down, otherwise I’d probably be up here rambling all day,” he jokes and everyone chuckles. He takes a deep breath and starts, “Sherlock, I find myself endlessly amazed at how selfless you are. You were introduced to a man who was cast aside once already and his young son, and found it within your heart to love us,” he looks up at me from under his lashes and sighs in aggravation, “You swore you wouldn’t roll your eyes during this part,” he chides loud enough for the amused crowd to hear, but I didn’t even realize I had.

“I apologize, please continue,” I smile at him.

He clears his throat and looks back at the card, “Every single day you amaze me with your deductions and your patience. Every single day I think how lucky I was to find you. Every single day I love you like it’s the first time I allowed myself to think it. You have changed my life; I was so alone and I owe you so much. So to you I promise to not only love, honor, and cherish you, but to support you no matter how insane your ideas sound, to always be there to keep you safe, and to always be faithful and love you through the good times as well as the bad.”

The urge to kiss him is the strongest it’s been since our first kiss four years ago.

“Are you absolutely certain this isn’t the part where I get to kiss you?” I ask, only half joking and hoping he’ll let me.

He laughs and it’s beautiful, “Yes, I’m certain.”

“Sherlock, it’s your turn,” the officiant says and I send her a small glare for interrupting the moment before turning back to John.

“I didn’t write my thoughts down because there were too many, so I figure it should be more succinct this way,” I begin and he smiles at me, amused. I clear my throat, “John, it’ll come as no surprise to just about everyone in this room that I never saw myself getting married; I mean, I could barely tolerate anyone before I met you and Kyle. But if I didn’t think I’d ever get married, it is because I never expected to have the love of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. You are the other half of me: the part that makes me better. So while I promise to love, honor, cherish, and be faithful to you, I also promise to not let a day go by where I don’t, in some way, remind you of this love and to never let you feel that you aren’t good enough, because to me you are perfect.”

He’s crying, so I reach up to wipe the tears away gently while ignoring the few of my own that have fallen.

“Well, it’s difficult to image after those vows, but is there anyone here who objects to this marriage?” The officiant asks.

In the utter silence I catch a glimpse of Kyle behind John, sweeping a glare over the entire crowd as if challenging them to say a single word against us. I can’t help myself as a laugh escapes. John looks at me questioningly and I gesture to Kyle, but by the time he turns around Kyle is smiling at me. John shakes his head in amusement before facing me again.

“If I could have the rings,” she asks Kyle who pulls the matching bands – John’s former and mine new – from his pocket and hands them to her.

She hands my ring to John.

“With this ring I thee wed,” he says as he places it on my finger, then I grab his ring and repeat the process.

“With the exchanging of these rings it is assumed that you agree to undertake all of the responsibilities that marriage entails,” she begins and then addresses John, “John Hamish Watson, do you pledge to love, honor, and cherish Sherlock for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” he agrees and my heart leaps at the words.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, do you pledge to love, honor, and cherish John for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” I say, struggling to keep my annoyed response of _‘of course’_ to myself.

“Wonderful,” the officiant smiles and then addresses the crowd, “The couple has decided to perform a sand ceremony to symbolize the joining of their lives, which will include their son. The idea behind this ceremony is that if one wants to leave the union, they must first find every grain of their own original sand.”

The three of us approach a table behind her and lift our clear vases: Kyle’s holds only white sand while both John’s and mine hold equal parts black and white sand. On the count of three, we all pour ours to mix in a much larger clear vase in the middle of the table.

Once done, we all return to our previous positions. The sound system quietly begins to play Sara Bareilles’s _I Choose You_ and the officiant speaks to us as well as the crowd.

“By the power vested in me by the holy church, I now pronounce you married. You may kiss your husband.”

“Oh, thank God,” I breathe and pull John close for a kiss I’ve been desperate to give him since before the ceremony began. I barely register the cheers from the crowd.

When we break apart she adds, “I introduce to you for the first time: Sherlock and John Watson-Holmes.”

The volume of the music increases as we face the quite intimate crowd while grasping hands. John reaches his right hand out to Kyle and we make our way towards the exit, finally the family we have longed to be.

We spend one million years taking pictures – I counted them all myself – with me bemoaning the situation the entire time. I’ve never been one for posing for pictures, and it doesn’t help that the photographer keeps yelling at me to take my hands and/or lips off of my dashing husband.

Husband. Incredible. Even after two years to get used to the idea it still astounds me that John has agreed to put up with me for the rest of our lives as my husband.

We finally enter the reception hall to more cheers and begin to make our rounds as Kyle runs off to play with my younger cousins that are around his age.

I do not remove my left hand from John’s right as we move from person to person as everyone slowly gets their food.

“My boys,” Mrs. Hudson gushes as she hugs and kisses us both.

“Thank you for celebrating with us,” John smiles genuinely at her.

“Me? I’ve been waiting for this from day one; I always knew you two were perfect for each other.”

“That is an exaggeration,” I roll my eyes good naturedly.

“It really isn’t,” she smiles knowingly, “Listen, I know you’re busy and a bit unfocused, but I wanted to tell you that my sister is moving out to the country and is passing her flats on to me.”

“You’re moving?” John looks honestly perplexed and saddened, “I can’t imagine the complex without you.”

She smiles brightly, “Well that’s the thing: I can’t exactly afford the upkeep myself, and I hardly need two flats.”

“Are you implying…?” John starts but cannot finish the thought due to shock.

“The upstairs flat has two bedrooms, of a sort. So, if you want it, I’d like this nice move to be your wedding present.”

“We would pay you rent, of course,” I insist since John appears to be choked up.

“Of course, but remember that I’m not your housekeeper or your nanny,” she warns.

“God no, of course not!” John chimes back in.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, it’s a very kind offer. We’ll have to think on it a bit,” I tell her diplomatically, though inside I’m ecstatic at the thought of a more private residence with more space.

“Absolutely, no need for an answer right now,” she says and begins to walk off.

“Mrs. Hudson!” John calls and she turns around, “Where is the flat?”

“The address is 221B Baker Street,” she smirks before turning around once more.

“Sherlock,” John breathes reverently, looking at me with excitement, “Imagine: a flat of our own.”

I place a short, soft kiss to his lips, “Let’s think about it later; right now we need some food.”

“You’re hungry?” He asks in shock as I lead him to the buffet-style set up we chose. It’s not exactly traditional, but we decided to go this route so it would be easier for our guests to eat when and how much they desired.

“Not particularly, but you are.”

“How could you tell?”

I roll my eyes again, “Honestly, John, your stomach has been talking to the guests almost as long as you have.”

He laughs and we finally drop hands to fill our plates before making our way to the head table to eat. Once we’re in sight of the crowd, we get multiple glass taps to signal us to kiss throughout the meal.

Once everyone is done, we cut the cake. We decided to forego the traditional reading of telegrams and best man speeches since Kyle was afraid to speak, and it didn’t seem right to do it without him.

The next thing I know, it’s time for our first dance. We make our way to the deserted dance floor and I take his left hand in my right, my left lying lightly on the top of his shoulders, his right resting below my arm on my back. We remain poised, staring in to each other’s eyes at a respectable distance until the words of Fleetwood Mac’s _Songbird_ begin:

                _For you, there’ll be no more crying_  
                _For you, the sun will be shining_  
 _And I feel that when I’m with you_  
 _It’s alright. I know it’s right_

We move slowly in an uncomplicated circle, no dancing lessons required. I pull him closer to me.

                _To you, I’ll give the world_  
           _To you, I’ll never be cold_  
 _‘Cause I feel that when I’m with you_  
 _It’s alright. I know it’s right_

He burrows his face in to my shoulder and I sigh happily.

                _And the songbirds are singing_  
              _Like they know the score_  
 _And I love you, I love you, I love you_  
 _Like never before_  
 _And I wish you all the love in the world_  
 _But most of all, I wish it from myself_

I pull back to see his face again.

                _And the songbirds keep singing  
                Like they know the score_

I stop moving and place my hands to cup his face.

                _And I love you, I love you, I love you  
                Like never before_

I kiss him passionately.

                _Like never before  
                Like never before_

The crowd claps, hoots, and hollers as we end the kiss and smile at each other.

“And now if the mothers of the couple would join them on the dance floor, please,” the DJ says and we break apart to welcome our own mother in to our arms.

We decided to dance at the same time to the same song. It’s not terribly long, but it’s one of Barbara’s favorites, and really, how can you argue with it?

                _I see trees of green, red roses, too_  
                _I see them bloom for me and you_  
 _And I think to myself:_  
 _What a wonderful world_  
 _I see skies of blue and clouds of white_  
 _The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night_  
 _And I think to myself:_  
 _What a wonderful world_

Mummy kisses me on the cheek towards the end of the stanza before stepping away from me. I’m confused as she walks away until Barbara takes her place in my arms and continues dancing like nothing changed. It’s not how we discussed it, but it’s actually quite perfect.

                _The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky_  
              _Are also in the faces of people going by_  
 _I see friends shaking hands, saying “How do you do?”_  
 _They’re really saying “I love you”_  
 _I hear babies crying, I watch them grow_  
 _They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know_  
 _And I think to myself:_  
 _What a wonderful world_

Barbara leans up and places a kiss to my cheek and whispers, “Thank you.”

I smile, though it’s tainted by sappy emotion, and pull her in to a hug.

I return to the table as John gets pulled in to more dances by the crowd.

“So, what are you guys doing for your honeymoon?” I turn to my right and come face to face with Greg.

“We’re going to spend a week in Jamaica while Kyle gets spoiled by both sets of Grandparents, then we’ve rented a cottage in the country that we’ll spend another week in as a family before Kyle has to go back to school,” I explain.

“Must be nice to work on your own schedule,” he says with a conspiratorial grin.

“It really is,” I smile.

“You know I’m never going to forgive you for stealing my best teacher from the profession,” he chides lightly.

“I’d say I was sorry, but we both know that would be a lie,” I laugh, “He’s much more beneficial as my assistant.”

“Yeah, okay,” he laughs.

The rest of the night is a blur, honestly. All I can really recall is a completely content feeling of loving and being loved in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have messed up the exact order of the wedding ceremony, but I'm going off basic research and memories. I have yet to get married myself, but if it's half as good as the one I thought up for these two, I'll be lucky indeed.
> 
> I also hope you caught/appreciated the little snippets of quotes from the show that were randomly thrown in there. I enjoyed putting them in this different context to see they fit here too.
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this one, especially; I'd really love to hear if it came across the way I wanted or if there's anything you'd like to see changed about it.


	5. The Obnoxious Time Kyle Became a Teenager

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Multiple smaller scenes that encompass the difficult back-and-forth of having a teenager in the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortest yet, sorry!
> 
> One of the snippets is loosely based on a prompt to see Sherlock rip one of Kyle's teachers apart at a parent/teacher conference. This isn't what I had in mind when I first heard the prompt, but they sort of morphed in to this on their own.
> 
> I keep forgetting to mention that every character (except for Kyle, John's parents, and the random parents in chapter 3) is an ACD canon character, even if just a minor one. Just...you know...fun fact.

**Kyle: 8**  
**Sherlock: 26**  
**John: 31**

It takes until November for everything to be settled for us to finally make the move to Baker Street, but with both of us working as consultants now, it doesn’t take us long to settle.

Kyle has his own room still, but now he’s a whole half a flight of stairs and a couple of doors away instead of a few simple steps. John was wary about the distance at first – “What if something were to happen?” – but I’ve done my best to assure him that it will be fine and should actually be better for Kyle.

Something changed with this new school year, and I’m fairly certain it’s because he has classes with kids that he never has before. He came home one day and all of a sudden we were “Dad” and “Pop”, like he abruptly became too old to use the old titles. I simply raised a shocked eyebrow when I heard it the first time but said nothing.

I suspect he’s also being picked on worse than before for having two fathers, but I can tell he’s trying hard not to let it affect him. He’s trying desperately to be independent and come in to his own without hurting our feelings.

He thinks it’s time for that. I think he could wait a few years yet, and John would probably be happy if Kyle always needed us (not that he doesn’t accept that he needs to develop independence, but…).

The first big snowstorm of the season is heading our way. We’ve stocked up and are prepared, but there’s no real sign of it when we head to bed.

Around 2:30am I jolt awake and it takes me about 30 seconds to realize that the reason for it is an 8-year-old standing at the foot of the bed.

“Kyle?” I whisper as I sit up, trying not to disturb John, but it doesn’t work.

“Wha’s wrong?” he mumbles as he sits up and pretends to be more awake than he actually is. I wish I could help the affectionate smile that appears when I see him so adorably sleepy, but I really can’t.

“The storm started and woke me up,” Kyle says quietly, shifting from foot to foot as his arms wrap around himself.

“What was the nightmare about?” I deduce sleepily before I can stop myself.

“Nightmare?” John asks, confused and thinking he missed something.

“There was a car accident,” Kyle admits, not even attempting to pretend I was wrong, “and…I’d rather not talk about it.”

I nod, but I already suspect that John and/or I died in the accident and he needs to reassure himself that we’re still here, still breathing.

“Do you need to stay with us tonight?” John asks non-judgmentally.

“Aren’t I too old?” He asks sadly.

I sigh as I stand from the warm bed, motioning for him to crawl under the covers. He does so quickly and then I follow him back in.

Kyle is on his back, both John and I on our sides facing him with our arms entwined over him, encasing him safely.

“You’re never too old to ask for help or comfort,” John assures him as he places a kiss to his temple.

“Go to sleep now, we’ll be right here,” I add quietly and he lets out a heavy breath before relaxing enough to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 **Kyle: 13**  
**Sherlock: 31**  
**John: 36**

It happens practically overnight; so sudden that it catches me completely off guard.

One day he’s our polite, funny, smart boy, and the next he’s an angry, angst-ridden teenager. How there are any humans over the age of 13 is now a mystery to me, because if you’d take Kyle at his word, everyone – friends and family alike – have it out for him and maybe even want to kill him.

I must admit, when his melodrama is giving me a headache, that it’s quite tempting at times. What I wouldn’t give for his repetitive childish phrases again.

“I’m not eating that, it looks like brains,” Kyle complains.

“That’s because it _is_ brains; your food is on the stove,” I try to keep my cool one evening.

“Another one of your disgusting experiments, Pops?”

I grit my teeth at the title. For some reason, I can handle “Pop” just fine but hate the sound of “Pops” and he knows it, “I have asked you repeatedly not to call me that,” I force out past my teeth.

“Why not, Pops?” He goads again with a sadistic twinkle in his eye and a falsely curious tone.

“Because it lacks respect,” I bite out, not that I think he cares one lick about the reasoning.

“And why should I respect you?” He challenges.

My eyes flash dangerously with anger as I try to find words to respond with. When I come up blank, my face falls in to a look of pain and disappointment. Honestly, it’s partly an extremely calculated move because I know how empathetic he is, but it’s also partly genuine.

I look down at his feet dejectedly for a few seconds, and then nod once before leaving him alone in the kitchen without another word.

 

 

 

 

A few weeks later I return home and am greeted by shouting as soon as I enter off the street. I rush up the stairs in a mild panic to find John and Kyle arguing heatedly in the living area.

“Oh good, you’re finally home,” John turns to me in exasperation.

“What’s happened?” I ask as Kyle glares moodily off to the side with his arms crossed defensively over his chest. I notice a box on the coffee table but can’t see inside of it.

“ _Your_ son,” John stresses, passing all blame to me for whatever has happened – we commonly pass responsibility to each other when Kyle displays a trait of one of ours that angers the other – before he continues, “brought home a dead rabbit today,” he finishes by gesturing to the box forcefully.

My brow creases in confusion, “Why would you do that?” I ask Kyle.

“We dissected frogs in Science two days ago and it was really interesting,” he appeals to me before turning shy, “I thought you could maybe help me dissect and understand the rabbit.”

He hesitantly meets my eyes through lowered lashes and I understand the gesture for the apology that it is. We haven’t spoken of the time a few weeks ago when he insulted me since it occurred.

“You want to do a disgusting experiment with me?” I ask uncertainly.

“Well, this one will be interesting,” he reasons with a half-smile and then adds seriously, “Will you help teach me, Pop? Please?”

I smile at the title since he’s also been avoiding using one since that day.

“What are we waiting for? Let’s clear a space in the lab,” I say excitedly as I remove my coat, referring to the corner of the living area that my experiments are (mostly) limited to.

John throws up his hands and makes a disgruntled noise, “Of _course_ it’s a bonding exercise,” he says with absolutely no humor behind the words, “Am I the only sane one in this family?”

“With your preference for crap telly, your sanity is also in question,” I reply as we get things in order to operate.

“I’m making dinner and you are both going to eat it while it’s still warm,” he demands, moving towards the kitchen.

Kyle and I both moan in complaint.

 

 

 

 

It’s a few months later, towards the end of the school year, and we’ve been called in to talk to the Headmaster of Kyle’s school.

Kyle is at home with Mrs. Hudson as punishment for getting in to trouble at school. It’s not an ideal punishment since he adores her so much – it would have been preferable to get Mycroft – but it was last minute and the real goal was not to allow him the freedom of being home alone.

“Thank you both for coming in this afternoon,” Headmaster Bradstreet starts after John and I sit down across the desk from him.

“What happened, exactly?” John asks politely.

We received the summons a few hours ago, took Kyle home (who refused to speak past his split lip or look at us through one black eye) while Bradstreet took care of some business, and are back now.

“Kyle attacked another student. Neither will confess to what was said, but Kyle claims that Athelney Jones has been speaking slanderously to him all year and he finally reacted physically with a punch to the jaw.”

“At which point Jones punched him in return?” I ask coldly, remembering Kyle’s face.

“In self-defense, yes,” Bradstreet stresses.

My eyes narrow; I saw Jones’ face after the incident, “Kyle only hit him once?” I ask as a formality, already knowing the answer.

“Correct.”

“And Jones hit Kyle twice: once in the eye and once in the mouth?” Again, a formality.

“Correct,” Bradstreet says again while shifting uneasily in his seat.

“And you call that self-defense?” I ask angrily and notice John’s left hand clasping in and out of a fist on his thigh.

He tries to be the calm, reasonable, approachable cop counterpart to my scathing, edgy, bad cop as we’ve gotten comfortable with in our working dynamic. However, the truth is that he gets just as worked up as I do, especially in regards to Kyle.

“Without knowing what was said or how long it’s been going on, all I can tell you for certain is that your son was the instigator of violence and it will not be tolerated.”

“So, let me get this straight: because your school has a serious lack of adequate supervision, you believe that our son – who just last week yelled at me for killing a spider instead of relocating it – punched a well-known bully unprovoked?” I seethe.

Bradstreet flushes with indignation, “As I mentioned, the evidence leads us…”

But I cut him off, “You _are_ aware that you’re addressing a Consulting Detective and his assistant, both of whom have helped solve hundreds of cases in the last five years alone, are you not? I think it’s fair to assume that we’re _very_ aware what the evidence leads us to.”

“Be that as it may, Kyle is still subject to a one-week suspension.”

“And Jones?” John asks icily.

“Two days for the physical violence, but lessened…”

“Enough,” I growl dangerously quiet before I stand, “Kyle will serve the week and we will be searching for a more suitable learning establishment for him; if not this year then certainly the next.”

John stands and moves to the door with me.

“I’m sorry that you feel that way,” Bradstreet says, not even rising from his seat.

“And I’m sorry that you are so inept and disconnected that you have no idea what your students are saying and doing to each other. We’ll be certain to let all of our friends know, though,” I threaten and then walk out before I, too, punch someone in the face.

I calm down slightly on the way home, but I know John will have to do most of the talking to Kyle. We bring him upstairs, thanking Mrs. Hudson for her time, and sit down as a family at the kitchen table.

“So?” John starts calmly across the table from Kyle, “Care to tell us your side of the story?”

“What did Headmaster Bradstreet tell you?” He asks quietly without looking from his hands on the top of the table.

John sighs, debating whether he should tell him or make him tell us, “He said you punched Jones because he said something to you.”

“That’s pretty much it,” he confirms.

“What did he say?” John presses.

Kyle simply shakes his head, eyes still cast downward.

“Love, we raised you right, yeah?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“You’re one of the most caring, gentle people I know, and now you’ve been suspended for punching someone? It’s not you and we know that. What did he say?”

He shakes his head more resolutely this time.

“Who did he insult?” I ask gently. It’s the only explanation of all of the facts.

Kyle finally looks up from his hands in shock and I can see the internal struggle within his eyes.

“You were protecting someone,” I add, “Who was it?”

“The two of you,” he admits quietly as he looks between us apologetically, “I tried to ignore his taunting, but he’s been doing it all year and it…it was too much. I’m so sorry,” he finishes honestly.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” John asks after a brief moment of shock while I’m still floundering.

“I didn’t want you to feel bad,” he explains, “It’s not like I’m not used to people talking about you two, but I know it’s just because they don’t understand. Normally I explain to them how you two love me just as much as their parents love them and it’s no different, but Jones wasn’t like that; he was saying things only to hurt me.”

“Kyle,” John says sadly, awed by his maturity, but Kyle hears it as the beginning of an apology that he thinks he doesn’t deserve.

“I’ve never been ashamed,” he rushes to assure us both.

My heart clenches at the words as John fights tears.

I clear my throat, “Be that as it may, this is not your fight. You need to tell us if things escalate like this again so that we can help resolve it correctly.”

“Yes, Pop,” he looks appropriately chastised.

“We want to look in to switching schools for you,” John informs him.

“But,” he looks nervous and upset again, “all my friends are here.”

“We don’t agree with the way the administration has handled this situation and, quite frankly, I think we need to send a clear message that it’s not okay,” he insists firmly.

“We won’t force you,” I assure him, “but you could still see your friends if you went somewhere else.”

He nods, “Can I think about it?”

“Apparently you have an entire week to devote a lot of time to thinking about it,” John says with a pointed look.

“Right,” he says, abashed.

“We understand the situation, but violence is never the answer,” John says. I can think of 17 situations in 30 seconds where violence is, in fact, the answer, but five years of marriage has taught me to keep my mouth shut, “This can’t happen again,” he finishes.

“It won’t,” he rushes to agree.

“Promise?” John asks with a hint of a smile.

Kyle smiles slightly in return, “Promise,” he swears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one or two more chapters left, depending on lengths/if I feel the ideas should be separated when I write it. Wow!
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear your thoughts: good, bad, or constructive :)


	6. The Times We Kept Moving Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jumps in major milestones for Kyle from Sherlock's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not very long but...they've pretty much settled, so it makes sense.

**Kyle: 17**  
**Sherlock: 35**  
**John: 40**

I’m staring at Kyle suspiciously but he won’t meet my gaze for longer than three seconds before looking away guiltily. His right leg is bouncing, just like mine does when my mind is beginning to revolt during a substantial lull between interesting cases. But this isn’t boredom for him: it’s his nervous tick. I watch intently as he continues to push his peas around his chicken, not eating anything, content to wait him out.

“So how was school today?” John, bless him, hasn’t picked up on all of the signs yet.

“Good,” he says nervously.

“The big dance is coming up, isn’t it? Have you found a date yet?” John continues obliviously.

Kyle’s breathing increases and a sheen of sweat is beginning to form on his brow and upper lip. Fascinating.

“Yes. About that…” he trails off.

“What?” John asks gently and finally looks - really looks - at him, “My God, are you all right?” he asks with genuine concern.

He nods as he gathers up his courage, “I’ve asked someone and they agreed, but…”

“But what?” John presses.

He takes a deep breath and rushes out: “I asked Anthea to go as my date and not just as a friend and I’m straight and I’m so sorry.”

I look at John who is staring back at me with a mirror image of my utter confusion on his face.

“You’re sorry you’re straight?” He asks Kyle slowly.

He nods, “I tried liking boys but I just…don’t. I mean, they’re nice as friends, but they don’t make me feel the way that girls do,” he explains shyly.

I can’t hold it in any longer: I laugh loudly, and it startles Kyle.

He looks at me hopefully, “You’re not…mad?”

“Mad? Good heavens, no!” I chuckle, “Of _course_ you’re straight.”

“You knew?” He asks in shock.

“We’re detectives, love,” John smiles, “But more than that, we’re your parents.”

“I’ve known since you made eyes at Samantha a few years back,” I say.

“The point is: we love you no matter what, including who you love.”

Kyle blushes, “I wouldn’t say I _love_ Anthea.”

“Of course not, you hardly know her,” I reason, “But your heart is open to it.”

“Good. This is good,” Kyle says slowly, a bit dazed.

“Is that what had you so nervous?” I ask.

“Yeah, I…I just didn’t want to disappoint you.”

John reaches across the table to place his hand reassuringly over Kyle’s, “It would take a lot more than that.”

“Besides,” I smirk, “Your Dad loved at least one woman before meeting me; maybe you just haven’t found the right man yet,” I joke.

Kyle rolls his eyes as his head tips fully back, “Pop, please.”

“What? I’m still holding out hope!” I continue lightly.

John looks at me in a way that makes my brain stop to admire that he still loves me so incredibly much after all these years.

“Sherlock,” he chides lightly, nothing but clear, unadulterated, open affection on his face.

I look to Kyle with a smile and tell him honestly, “It’s _your_ heart, and you can give it to whomever you please…just be careful with it, yeah?”

“I’ll try,” he promises us both with a smile.

 

 

 

 

 **Kyle: 24**  
**Sherlock: 42**  
**John: 47**

Once he opened up to us about his sexuality, he seemed to jump freely from relationship to relationship. But then during his third year at Uni he met Emily - two years younger than him - and everything stopped.

Kyle was always someone we could be proud of, but she made him better somehow. From the first time we met her we both knew this was different: this could be special.

“Why does my bowtie never sit straight?” John asks grumpily, fussing over the accessory.

“Because you don’t apply even pressure on the final step,” I explain as I move in close behind him, my arms draping over his shoulders to fix it.

He glares at me via the mirror in front of us, “That was a rhetorical question.”

“You are aware that that concept has always been lost on me,” I finish fixing his bowtie and kiss his cheek, “Everything has an answer.”

He turns to face me, his hands resting on my hips, “Yes, but not all answers need to be voiced.”

“Tedious,” I sigh and lean down to kiss his mouth.

When we break apart, John sighs heavily, “Can you believe he’s getting married? Doesn’t it only feel like yesterday that this was us?”

“Does it literally feel like yesterday? No,” John glares at me again, “But I understand the sentiment,” I assure him.

“We should probably check in on him; it’s drawing closer which means he’s most likely overthinking things.”

“Like you did?” I ask as we head towards the door.

“Please,” he laughs, “from what Kyle said, you were worse off than me.”

“I was positive about what I wanted,” I insist, as if the last 16 years haven’t proven that to him.

“As was I,” he laces our fingers as we walk in to Kyle’s room after a knock and a bid to enter.

It’s a different room, different church, and different groom but the scene is so eerily familiar.

“This is frightening,” Kyle admits to us quickly, looking absolutely terrified as he paces the room, “Is this normal?”

“You remember our wedding, don’t you?” John asks with a kind smile as he takes a seat and I take the one next to him.

I smile politely at Kyle’s long-time friend - and best man - Charles, and then at Emily’s brother Ryan, both who seem completely out of their element.

“Nerves before the ceremony don’t mean that it’s wrong,” I assure Kyle as I grab John’s hand again, “It’s a big step.”

“But the right one, right? We’re going to last forever?” He beseeches me.

I shake my head slightly, “You know I can’t see in to the future.”

“But you see things other people tend to overlook,” he insists, “This isn’t a mistake, is it?”

“You know my methods; use them,” I prod gently.

“But I…” he starts to protest but I cut him off.

“You know the answers, just talk it out.”

“Emily,” he starts slowly, “makes me feel like never before. I love seeing her face after I haven’t for awhile. I miss her when she’s gone, but love that she’s independent. She is the most beautiful person, inside and out, that I have ever met. She does some truly annoying things, but they’re strangely endearing,” he relaxes more with each statement and smiles brightly as he finishes, “And I couldn’t imagine my life without her.”

“There you have it,” I state with a knowing smile.

He lets out a relieved laugh on a light breath, “Thank you, Pop.”

“It’s about that time,” John says.

Both John and I walk him down the aisle - not exactly customary, but a nod to our wedding - before John sits in the front pew and I take my place as officiant.

At the reception that evening, John and I dance the night away, reminiscing about our own wedding and assuring each other that this does not make us old.

 

 

 

 

 **Kyle: 26**  
**Sherlock: 44  
** **John: 49**

It’s the newest title change that makes us old. Really, it’s impossible not to feel old when you are someone’s Grandpa and Granddad.

We receive the message that Emily has gone in to labor and I go in to a blind panic. I’m pacing the living area aimlessly, fretting, when John enters to grab his coat.

“Oi, what’s this then?” He asks, gesturing to my entire person.

“John, I…” I swallow thickly as I stop moving so I can look at him, “I don’t know that I can do this,” I admit.

“Do what?” he asks, perplexed but not at all unnerved by the statement.

“This,” I gesture vaguely to the world around me, “A tiny human…a grandchild.”

He smiles fondly, “I often forget that you weren’t around when Kyle was a baby, or around any babies in general.”

“There’s a reason for that: I hate children.”

“No you don’t,” he laughs.

“John, I’m serious. You _know_ Kyle was an anomaly as the first young child I could tolerate; not even my own kin were endearing.”

He steps to me and kisses my lips. I fight for a few seconds but inevitably melt under his caress.

“It’s different when they’re your own, I promise.”

“But they’re not our own, they’re Kyle and Emily’s,” I insist emphatically of the grandchild we don’t even know the gender of yet. They wanted to be surprised.

“Which is even better,” he smiles again and continues when I raise a quizzical brow, “Remember the difference between babysitting Kyle and helping to raise him?”

“Yes.”

“This is babysitting. We’ll get to spoil them rotten and give them back to Kyle and Emily at the end of it to let _them_ deal with the tantrums and character building.”

My heart lightens a fraction, “That might be nice,” I admit.

“Seeing them for the first time will change everything.”

“I’m ready,” I tell him with a resolute nod and we make our way to the hospital.

When we get there, John talks to Emily as Kyle leads me excitedly to the nursery window to see the baby through the glass. John insisted that he wanted the first time he sees his grandson to be face to face, no barrier, but I couldn’t wait to hopefully lay my fears to rest.

Kyle points him out, and I must admit that he’s pretty adorable.

“We named him William,” Kyle tells me quietly, “After you and Grandpa.”

I look at him in shock, barely registering the tears in my eyes at the sentiment.

“Why would you do that?” I ask honestly, “If anyone deserves that honor it’s your Dad.”

“Dad is indescribably wonderful,” he starts in agreement, “But so are you.”

I shake my head, thinking of the fights and all the times I fell short, failing him.

Kyle looks perplexed and hurt, “How can you not know that?” He asks sadly, “Pop, I hope I’m at least _half_ the dad that you didn’t have to be,” he says firmly.

I have no words for that, so I just pull him in to a long, comforting hug.

“You’ll be great,” I assure him.

“I guess we’ll see,” he laughs nervously.

I release Kyle and turn back to the window so I can lay eyes on my grandson - little William - again. My heart swells with love and pride, and I think that this could be okay. I can do this.

“A boy, huh?” I ask without looking from William.

“Yup,” Kyle confirms happily.

“When are we going to get another girl in this family?” I joke with a slight smirk.

He laughs and says, “Maybe next time.”

And I smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kyle's line towards the end was taken from Brad Paisley's song "He Didn't Have to Be" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GUdGJJqgr2g  
> As a child whose parents divorced when I was very young - incidentally like Kyle - this song always hit very close to home for me and, unbidden, worked its way in here.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed it, even as fluffy as it is!


	7. Epilogue, or The Time We Moved On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't read retirementlock, so I don't know if this fits in to the tag for it well. The retirement to a cottage in Sussex is ACD Canon, though, so I went with that.
> 
> I didn't actually anticipate this ever ending here (originally chapter 6 was the last one in the outline), but it felt right to do add this little tail.
> 
> I was also debating waiting to release the Epilogue but I just can't. I'm so ecstatic that this is finished and I want you to experience that with me.

**Kyle: 52  
** **Sherlock: 70**  
**John: 75**

So much time has passed and so much has happened.

When I was younger, I never would have thought that I would find someone who could put up with and love me for as long as John has. Nor could I imagine I’d be Grandpa to three and soon Great-Grandpa to one.

I stand in the middle of the empty living area of 221B as images of our life here flash before my eyes: the experiments in the corner, the unplanned late-night kips with John on the couch during a case, the laughter and tears shared as a family at the kitchen table.

It’s unfathomable, really, to think of leaving it after all these years and all that these walls have seen, but I promised John we’d retire when I turned 70. Not an unreasonable request to fill as it’s been many years since I was able to chase after criminals or stay up for countless hours in a row figuring out a case.

We bought a cottage in Sussex where I will keep bees and John will continue to write, just not about our adventures any longer. He hasn’t confided in me what he will write, but I’m excited to see the passion from his blog of us be transferred to something new.

New Scotland Yard has been firmly instructed to only contact us if it’s dire, and they know it will simply be via phone as we will only pop in to London to visit family, not work. John was very insistent about this, and I? Well, I’ve never been very good at denying him anything.

I am shaken from my reverie when his hand slips in to mine, grasping it.

“Everything is loaded and awaiting your order. Are you ready?” He smiles up at me with that same loving look that he’s had only for me for so many years.

“Yes,” I turn my head and smile down at him in return, “It’s time.”

 And as one we descend the 17 steps of 221B Baker Street for the very last time.

 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/goddess-of-the-night04) for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)
> 
> If you have been following me as I've worked this out, thank you so much! Your words and kudos of encouragement have made all the difference.
> 
> If you just found this and read it start to finish as a complete work, thank you, as well!
> 
> Either way, I would adore hearing your thoughts on how it all turned out. And if you have any constructive criticism for it/me, I'd love to hear that, too.
> 
> Thank you to those who encouraged me to continue with the Maybe Next Time universe and those who prompted me with things they would like to see. I hope I did them justice.
> 
> It's been a wonderful journey. Until next time...


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